


Wrapped in the Yellow Jack(et)

by Cattywampus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friendship, Guilt, Kidnapping, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Violence, War, hints at torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattywampus/pseuds/Cattywampus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns 18 months after The Fall, John doesn't think he can forgive his ex-flatmate. But he's shocked when he finds out about his friend being carted off to the hospital by an obsessed and infatuated media circus. What was originally brushed off as the common case of the flu turns out to be far deadlier and brings to light all sorts of dark secrets about Sherlock's time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I do work in the medical field I don't specialize in infectious diseases. This isn't meant to be completely accurate and is a work of fiction. I did my best to keep it as authentic as possible.

John had made a mistake.

He had always thought of himself as a very patient man. Always the type to think of every possible scenario before acting; to mull over every decision he had to make; to think over his words before he spoke them. And yet, as he stared at the gaunt man before him, John felt words leave his mouth like vomit. Where usually his filter held strong like a fortified medieval castle, he felt words tumble from his mouth as if they were bricks being torn from his walls. 

“You bloody bastard!” John couldn’t bring himself to hit the haggard man and so instead he threw his fist against the wall, denting it before turning away. He ran his hands shakily through his graying hair and turned to glare at his companion, “What the fuck were you thinking?!” 

The man across from him said nothing but stared resolutely ahead, as if John were merely a part of the furniture. 

“Jesus, Sherlock…I—I don’t understand…” John felt his energy drain out of him and the familiar sting of tears waiting at the rims of his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat; finally turning his piercing eyes to meet John’s gaze, “You weren’t meant to understand.” His voice was cold and detached; a far cry from the tear-filled confession only 18 months before. 

“Wha…” John couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, stiff as a statue, as if warding off any sort of physical contact. And yet, John desperately wanted to wrap his hand around his friend’s wrist. 

To feel the pulse beating steadily underneath. 

John lowered himself down into the old worn chair he had once favored back at Baker Street, the only thing he had bothered to salvage during the move, “Well, are you going to explain anything or have you just come to make me feel like a bloody idiot for mourning over you for the past year and a half?” 

If John had been paying closer attention he would have noticed Sherlock’s jaw tense; he would have seen the flicker of desperation in his friend’s quicksilver eyes. But John had purposefully stared down at the carpet. 

He was ashamed for his behavior during the first year without Sherlock. He had withdrawn from the world, from his friends and even from his family. He isolated himself, protecting himself from socializing by turning into the hermit version of his sister. Seven months ago, however, John had looked at himself in the mirror and he felt horrified at what he saw. And so he pulled himself together and started anew. And since then, life had been bearable. It had even been good sometimes. He had found a job he enjoyed, a girlfriend who loved him, and an apartment that wasn’t full of body parts and potentially explosive experiments. 

He told himself he was happy. 

Sherlock’s voice pulled him out of his reverie and when he looked up he noticed the tall form of his friend standing at the window, “Moriarty offered me an ultimatum. Myself for the lives of others. I made the most logical choice.”

John felt like laughing and crying at the same time. It was such a Sherlock statement and yet his life had been in pieces when the man had left. He waited for Sherlock to continue, to offer some semblance of an excuse but when Sherlock turned around to face John again, the doctor knew that was the only explanation he would ever get, “And that’s it?” He attempted to get Sherlock to elaborate but the detective only gave him a blank stare. 

“Okay…so where have you been for the past year and a half then?” John leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he watched Sherlock lean against the windowsill. The tension in his body vibrated through him like an electrical pulse.

“Taking care of Moriarty’s cells…” Sherlock shrugged slightly and John felt a burst of red hot rage settle in his chest at his friend’s indifference. 

“Oh. Of course. I should have known that, right?” John stood up and paced, “I should have known that my best friend was actually alive and well and only gone for a short vacation to take out criminal henchmen! Of course! How could I have been so ignorant?!” John felt like retching. His body was quivering with silent rage. Vaguely, he thought about punching the wall again but Mary would not be pleased if she came home to two dents in the wall and so he restrained himself. John found himself getting even angrier when Sherlock said nothing at all. When he turned to glare at the former detective he found him still casually leaning against the sill. 

Determinedly, John took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and looked down at the carpet again, “I can’t do this…I can’t deal with you. Not anymore. I have a life to live. I’ve moved on, Sherlock. “John looked up at his former best friend. As ever, the sociopath’s face was completely wiped clean of any emotion. That didn’t deter John; he kept going, “After you died…I—I thought I’d never live normally again. But I had to move on for the sake of my sanity. I’ve never grieved for anyone like I grieved for you…and I can’t go back to that life ever again. Do you understand, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s jaw tensed but he replied in an eerily calm voice, “You have too much at risk should you return to your old lifestyle…”

“Yeah…” John felt tears forming but he bit the side of his cheek to keep it in check, “I’ve got a really lovely life here. A job and Mary. I love Mary. I think I might marry her and I couldn’t go off gallivanting with you if I did…I don’t want to go off gallivanting with you anymore.” John looked down. He was lying and he knew it; but a part of him wanted his words to hurt the impenetrable man that was Sherlock Holmes, “You hurt me, Sherlock. I—I can’t let you have the chance to hurt me again.” 

When John eventually looked up at the end of his speech, he saw Sherlock nod and open his mouth as if to speak. He promptly closed it. Then opened it. John never thought he’d see the day when Sherlock Holmes had run out of things to say. 

Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice was not full of its usual arrogance but was softer, quieter, “I understand, John. I understand. I shall not attempt to persuade you into this dangerous lifestyle. Please give Mary my best.” And with that, the man swooped out of the room, pausing only briefly at the front door to add softly and with no contempt at all, “I hope you two are very happy.” With that the man left the apartment, shutting the door dutifully behind him. 

The minute John heard the door shut he knew. He had made a mistake. 

Pride had kept him from fixing his error. For hours he mulled over the idea to text or call Sherlock but then he remembered that he no longer had his old best friend’s phone number. A year and a half is an awfully long time and John had ruined his old phone while ice skating with Mary. Mary…what would she say once he told her all of this. When they had first met, John had been a broken man. With the patience and kindness of a saint, Mary had lovingly glued all of his shattered pieces together. 

When Mary came home and asked him about his day John told her he wasn’t feeling well and not to worry, that he’d be right as rain in the morning. He told her that he would sleep in the spare bedroom tonight because he didn’t want to keep her up and she fussed over him like she fussed over her primary school students. In the solitude of the second bedroom, John cried for the first time in seven months. 

The next morning, when John woke up, he considered his options. He had to tell Mary. She deserved to know. And so he slid out of bed and soldiered on into the kitchen where he found her munching on a piece of toast while reading the paper.  
“So do you think he’ll leave you alone—as in, forever?” Mary asked him after he had told her his entire story. That was the great thing about Mary. No matter how crazy your story seemed, she always gave you the benefit of the doubt. After John had finished telling her about his mad genius friend returning from beyond the grave John began to wonder himself if he wasn’t going slightly insane. 

John shrugged at her question, “I don’t know. But Sherlock never used to give up that easily on things. If he didn’t get his way he’d always come back to it later.” For some reason, saying this aloud made John feel slightly better. As if, because he had said this one truth, his best friend would return in a few months to try and convince him to go chasing after serial killers. 

Mary reached across the kitchen table and rested her hand atop his, smiling slightly, “Maybe he’s just trying to give you some space so you can get used to the idea of him being back.” 

John nodded absentmindedly, turning her words over in his mind. 

~*~

A day later, when John turned on the evening news, he was surprised to see none other than Sherlock Holmes sitting between Greg Lestrade and the Chief Superintendent at a press conference. So, at last, the cat was out of the bag. John found himself vaguely relieved. Over the past two days he had been wondering if he was losing his mind. His lack of contact with the once dead Holmes had made him wonder if his brain had merely made it all up to begin with and yet, there he was: Sherlock Holmes sitting quietly between the two police officers while reporters fired questions between the three of them. 

John perched himself on the arm of the couch, balancing the remote control on his knee as he watched the press conference. It appeared as though he had missed most of the first bit and the reporters seemed to be wrapping things up. 

“Are you planning to return to your old sleuth lifestyle, Mr. Holmes?” The camera swooped over to the pudgy redhead in the third row who had asked the question. She held a pen and notepad at the ready as if Sherlock’s word were a lifesaving antidote. 

When the camera moved back to focus on the star of the show Sherlock showed no signs of attempting to answer the question, instead he nodded to Lestrade, who smiled briefly before leaning toward the microphone in front of him and answering the question himself, “Mr. Holmes would very much like to get back to solving crimes; however, he’s first planning on taking a rather long and relaxing holiday in order to recuperate from the past year and a half.” Lestrade sat back and waited for the follow-up questions that were bound to follow. John leaned closer to the television. A holiday? That didn’t sound at all like Sherlock. Perhaps this was Mycroft’s doing, John thought snidely. And even stranger still, no one seemed to be questioning why Sherlock hadn’t answered a question which was directed at him in the first place. 

“And what of Dr. Watson? Will he also be returning to crime fighting?” The pudgy lady spoke up again, raising her pencil tentatively in the air as she did so. 

Once again, it was Lestrade who leaned forward and not Sherlock. John looked more closely at the grainy image of Sherlock on his screen. Was he sick? He did look thinner. And paler. But the last time John had gotten a close look at Sherlock was over a year ago. Of course he’s changed since then. John scoffed at himself and waited patiently for Lestrade’s reply. This should be interesting, he thought to himself, “Dr. Watson has decided to retire from the public eye. While Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson still value each other’s friendship, the doctor felt that it was time to focus on other things.” 

John had to give Greg kudos. He had done a fantastic job at answering all of the ridiculous questions regarding the nature of his and Sherlock’s relationship. He had even managed to do so with a smile. But with every question, John found himself more and more worried at Sherlock’s lack of response.

Finally, after another seven minutes of “do you miss each other” and “how was the reunion” type questions, the Chief Superintendent cleared his throat and raised his hands in front of him, placating the salivating gossip mongers, “I think that’s all the time we have for now ladies and gentlemen,” he said with the air of man who knew exactly what he was doing, “I know this is a very exciting story but I please ask all of you to respect Mr. Holmes’ privacy; especially during the next few weeks as he attempts to recuperate from his long journey back to London. After all, in order to solve crimes, he’s got to be able to communicate his thoughts,” Everyone laughed jovially, except Sherlock, who had remained as stoic as ever throughout the press conference, “So please, let him enjoy his holiday in peace and quiet.” 

With that, the three men who were seated at the table stood up and left through a side door. John leaned forward intently, Sherlock did look a bit shaky. So he was sick…that would explain his lack of answers. Perhaps he had lost his voice. John felt a familiar knot of worry in his stomach but pushed it aside knowing that, at least with the press conference out of the way, Sherlock was probably being doted on by Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade both. 

Despite not hearing from Sherlock for several more days, John assured himself that he was just getting over a rather bad case of the flu or some other virus. After all, he had not looked well at the press conference. Due to the overwhelming popularity of Sherlock’s return, clips of the press conference had been played continually on the nightly news and other programs. They had even been analyzed. John had seen the scene of Sherlock getting up from his chair 12 times now, and he had not been the only one to notice how shaky he looked. 

At the beginning of the conference Sherlock had spoken hoarsely into his microphone only to alert the reporters that, “I seem to have come down with a rather nasty cold and have almost completely lost my voice. As such, my colleague Detective Inspector Lestrade will be communicating on my behalf. Thank you.” 

Still, something didn’t seem right. John felt himself questioning every clip that was played back on a variety of programs. He felt himself becoming more and more paranoid with every showing. Something was off. He knew Sherlock and that was not Sherlock’s sick voice. Mary had told him that he sounded like a crazed fan when spoke like that but John felt himself only become more embittered by Sherlock’s lack of communication. 

Maybe Sherlock had taken his “I don’t want to go off gallivanting with you” as “I never want to see you again.” Now that John looked back on all that he had said he realized that probably was what Sherlock had interpreted from his rant. Socially inept Sherlock. John should have known better.

And yet, pride held him back. He couldn’t go and contact Sherlock now. He was afraid that he’d look like he was giving in. That he was craving for an adrenaline filled chase and so he just called Sherlock up. Maybe that’s what Sherlock had planned all along. John wouldn’t doubt it if it was. Sherlock was always at least 10 steps ahead of everyone else. Maybe he was just pretending to be sick in order to get John out of his hermit’s cave. In order to get John to crack. 

Well Sherlock was going to be very disappointed. 

If the newly risen detective thought he could get away with this, he had another thing coming. Just as John thought this, he sighed and put his head in his hands. He was turning into a paranoid mess. Since when did every interaction become some sort of puzzle to figure out? John must be going mad. 

That night Mary made banana pudding and John knew she had something important to say. She always waited until he had had something sweet in his stomach to say what she really felt. John took a spoonful of the dessert and waited. 

“I think you should try to contact Sherlock.” She spoke quietly, almost as if she had hoped he hadn’t heard her. 

“Excuse me?” 

“It’s just that—well, I think you need to talk with him…about all that’s happened over the past year and a half. He was your best friend, John. And even though he lied, you still care about him. That much is obvious. I mean…you go over tapes of that stupid interview to see if you can pick out any signs of influenza…” Mary let that sentence hang in the air for a while and John felt almost ashamed at how obvious he’d been. 

“They’re not tapes…they’re just replaying those clips on different programs…” John said in his defense. Though, the minute it came out of his mouth he knew he sounded like an utter idiot. 

“I’m just saying—I think you need him. And I think he needs you.” Mary got up quietly and removed the bowls once filled with bread pudding from the table. John sat quietly and thought about what she had said. 

Despite his agreeing with her, John decided to wait a few more weeks before he made contact. After all, what was the rush? 

~*~

It was a Tuesday and he didn’t have to be at work until half past three, so John took his time getting ready that morning. He turned on the television, not really caring what was on, and went into the kitchen to fix himself some toast and tea. 

By the time he had returned, he realized what used to be the news was now replaced by some kind of gossip program. Just as he started looking for the remote to change it, the breaking news caught his eye. 

“After weeks out of the public eye, Sherlock Holmes, the king of crime fighting, makes his long awaited return to detective work. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the return we were all hoping for…Lindsey Sanders has the story…Lindsey?” The clip cut to an attractive young woman standing at the entrance of an alley. John felt his heart drop. 

“Hi Henry. Today, after weeks of awaiting a grand return, some fans of Sherlock Holmes were disappointed when the detective arrived at a Scotland Yard crime scene only to be wheeled away by paramedics minutes later. Not much is known about the incident but one onlooker caught most of the action on his camera phone,” Moments later, the grainy image of the same alley way flashed on screen. Sherlock was seen getting out of a taxi cab before walking up to what appeared to be Lestrade and Donovan standing at the mouth of the alley. Only a few seconds later, Sherlock collapsed and John hadn’t realized that his toast was now on the floor. 

“Minutes after collapsing, an ambulance arrived at the scene to carry the superstar detective to a nearby hospital. When questioned about his condition, Detective Inspector Lestrade only had this to say,” The image cut to a frazzled looking Lestrade who was clearly attempting to get into his car, “’We don’t know anything yet regarding Mr. Holmes’ condition. I can tell you that when he was lifted into the ambulance he was breathing.’” And with that, Lestrade climbed into his car and sped off. 

“Hopefully more details on this story will be released within the next few hours, Henry.” Lindsey Sanders nodded at the camera, signifying she was well and done with her story and the picture retuned to the brightly lit newsroom where the two newscasters were looking at one another. 

“Well he certainly didn’t look too well, did he, Henry?” The woman said as she shook her head in dismay.

“Indeed he did not, Kathy. We can only hope that our Riechenbach hero makes a full recovery.” Henry smiled widely at the camera and began on another tangent. But John wasn’t listening anymore. He had jumped from the couch, knocking his leg against the coffee table and spilling his tea all over the white carpet. He couldn’t care less. He patted down his jeans, desperately feeling for his phone. Ah ha! There it was. 

Thank God he still had Lestrade’s phone number. Had Sherlock really neglected to take good care of himself for so long? The seconds before Lestrade picked up his phone seemed to drag on forever. 

“Lestrade.” Greg’s voice seemed clipped and strained. John could sense the worry leaking through the detective’s voice.

“Greg, it’s John. What happened? How’s Sherlock?” John barely noticed how close he sounded to tears. 

“Jesus. John. I—I wasn’t expectin’ to hear from you.” John could hear the rustling of clothes and John imagined he was moving to a more private location. “I—I thought that you and Sherlock had…I don’t know…fallen out.” 

John fought to urge to groan, “That’s not really important now, is it? Please—Greg, just tell me how he is.” 

Greg let out a shuddering breath, “I don’t know…they haven’t come out and said anything yet…” 

“What happened?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you…I mean—I knew he had been feeling a little under the weather but I hadn’t seen him since the press conference and he assured me that it was just a case of the flu. Jesus, if I had known it was gonna be something as serious as God-only-knows then maybe I would have visited him...” 

John felt the air leave his lungs, “But Mrs. Hudson must have known something…” He said as he desperately looked for his coat. Hang his stubborn pride, John was going to the hospital and damn all the medical staff he was going to see his best friend. 

“She’s gone to stay with his sister for the summer. Sherlock’s been alone for the past week.”

John switched ears as he threw his coat on, grabbing his keys and wallet off of the breakfast bar and marching toward the front door, “What hospital did they take him to? I’m coming by.” 

“Fuck John…it’s already a bleedin’ media circus out there…what do you think they’re gonna do once you show up?” Lestrade hissed quietly. “Tomorrow morning there’s gonna be rumors abound that Sherlock’s bloody well dying or some bullshit like that…he’s already dealing with their antics, do you think he really needs any more?”

John paused to lock the door but didn’t stop his determined march outside despite not knowing where the hell he was going, “Greg, if the doctors haven’t come out to tell you what it is yet, it’s not a good sign. Take It from me, I know. I want to be with Sherlock. He needs me. And I need him” John felt himself mentally sighing at how Mary’s words came back to him. She who is wisest, he thought idly. “Look—I made a mistake when I threw him out. I—I honestly can’t even tell you how much I’ve regretted it. It’s just been my stupid pride holding me back from contacting him. I shoulda done it sooner…I—I just want to see him…” John felt tears pricking behind his eyes as he stood on the front step of Mary and his flat. 

“We’re at Charring Cross Hospital. A&E entrance.” 

“Thanks, Greg. I’ll be there soon.” John hung up and shoved his phone hastily into his coat pocket while waving for a cab. With any lucky he’d be there in less than 15 minutes. He felt his body shake with nerves and he swiftly wiped the tears from his eyes as he directed the cabbie where to go. 

~*~

Lestrade looked pale. He was standing by the water cooler in the A&E waiting room, wringing his hands, occasionally pulling out his mobile to check the time. John could barely keep from tripping over his feet as he rushed toward the detective. 

“Greg!” John stopped short of the graying man who turned around to see John stumbling forward.

“John, hey.” Lestrade reached out a hand and shook John’s with a weary smile. 

“Any news?” 

Lestrade shook his head, “No…not a word now for,” He paused and pulled out his phone to check the time, “three and a half hours…”

John felt his anxiety reach a whole different level and let his head drop to his chest as he ran a hand through his hair, “Jesus…what in the hell is taking them so long?” 

Greg dropped into one of the green vinyl chairs and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands, “I should have visited him…” Greg’s voice was just a whisper. 

John shook his head and dropped into the seat kitty corner from him, “You didn’t know…no one did.” 

“I know…but…I don’t know—I should have visited him. I knew he had been sick. And I knew that you two had had a falling out. I should have taken it upon myself to make sure he was alright. I just—I just figured he wanted some time to himself.” 

John rested a hand on Greg’s shoulder, “If anyone should feel guilty right now, it’s me, Greg.” John felt said guilt making itself known with a deep rumbling within his chest. “Listen—I should probably call Mary. Let her know what’s been going on…”

Greg nodded, looking up at John and waving him away, “Of course…I’ll be fine.” 

Just as John went to get up, he saw a harried looking doctor push open the door to the visitors’ area. “Greg—I think this may be us.” John nudged the detective and both stood up as the balding doctor marched toward them. 

“Are you two for Mr. Holmes?” At their rushed nodding he frowned slightly, “He’s stable…for now.” The doctor took off his round glasses wearily and held the bridge of his nose, “His condition, I’m afraid, is severe.”

“What is it?” John asked quietly. 

“We’re unsure right now. Currently, we’re just trying to make him comfortable until his blood test results come back. Tell me, do either of you know if Mr. Holmes has been traveling outside of the country recently?” The doctor shot both of them a severe look. John looked toward Lestrade who shrugged slightly. 

“Indeed he has.” A voice spoke from behind them and John didn’t even have to turn to see who it was. Mycroft Holmes, looking slightly more careworn than his usual pristine condition, came to stand right at John’s elbow. “He has been traveling extensively, in fact.”

The doctor stared at him as if deciding whether or not to question the ostentatious man in front of him; Mycroft, perhaps sensing his unease, saved him from the trouble, “I am Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes,” He held out his had to shake the doctor’s, always one for manners, even in the face of disaster, “This is Sherlock’s colleague and friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he pointed toward Greg who nodded and then rested a hand on John’s shoulder as he made his final introduction, “And this is Doctor John Watson, my brother’s closest friend and confidant.” Mycroft squeezed John’s shoulder and released it almost immediately afterward. “Now, please, tell us what you can regarding my brother’s condition.” 

“Well, Mr. Holmes—it was touch and go for a while there, if I may speak frankly.” 

“Please do. I am not one to mince words.” Mycroft nodded politely toward the doctor but John could see the strain behind his eyes. 

The doctor hesitated for a short moment and then, seemingly made a mental decision and continued on, “Mr. Holmes fainted outside your crime scene, Inspector Lestrade, due to a cardiac arrhythmia. Essentially, his heart slowed significantly, to the point where he lost consciousness. He was lucky the EMTs arrived when they did. They had to restart his heart once inside the ambulance.”

John felt himself growing nauseous but nodded toward the doctor to continue. 

“When he arrived he had a high fever. And once he regained consciousness he was pretty rattled. At first we assumed it was just a nasty case of influenza that had been left untreated. But…shortly after he woke up he became rather ill. I’ll admit that he didn’t vomit anything of substance but what bile did come up contained blood. We’re running a number of tests. He’s come back negative for TB but in order to narrow down the possibilities I’d like to know where he’s been in the past month.”

“Jesus…” John moaned quietly turning away from the doctor to run a hand down his face. 

Mycroft cleared his throat, “My brother has just returned from the Democratic Republic of Congo.” 

“What?!”John felt as if everything he had known in the past few weeks had just been flipped upside down, “When?”

Mycroft smiled sympathetically at John, “My dear Dr. Watson, that’s where Sherlock had just returned from when he went to speak with you.” 

John looked around in disbelief but quickly regained his self-awareness, “So—what does that mean? If he’s been to the Congo?” 

The doctor frowned, “Well, did he get his vaccinations before he went abroad?”

“That’s highly unlikely as he was not necessarily planning on traveling to sub-Saharan Africa.” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. He didn’t grace John with a glance when the ex-blogger gave him an incredulous stare. So instead John looked toward Greg who looked just as lost as he did. 

“Then that narrows it down significantly.” The doctor said, nodding, “The test results will be in within the next few hours. I’ll let you know when we get them in. I would let you go in and sit with him Mr. Holmes but until we know exactly what it is, it would probably be safer for everyone if you waited out here.”

“Of course.” Mycroft nodded resolutely and reached out to shake the doctor’s hand. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours.” With that, the doctor spun on his heels and returned to where he had come from. 

John stood and stared at the double doors for a minute, feeling utterly hopeless, until Lestrade cleared his throat and said quietly, “What do we do now?” 

Mycroft, unwavering as ever, walked over to the cheap vinyl seats and sat himself down, “I should think that would be obvious Detective Inspector Lestrade. We wait.” The elder Holmes crossed his legs and settled himself in such a patient position John almost thought he could have been a stand-in statue. 

Greg nodded quietly and sat down next to Mycroft. 

“Should you need to return to work, though, we will, of course, notify you of any changes in his condition.” 

“I’ll stay here for a little while longer...then I might have to go deal with the paparazzi circus that’s bound to be happening outside.” Lestrade ran a hand over his face and let his shoulders sag. 

“I’ve taken care of that but, as journalists, they’ll no doubt be at it again soon.” Mycroft gave Lestrade a tight-lipped smile and leaned back in his chair. 

“Why was Sherlock in the Congo?” John still hadn’t sat down. He looked over to Mycroft and felt the tremor in his hand begin to act up. Thinking back on it now, it was amazing that it hadn’t shown up until just now, what with all the stress he had been dealing with. 

Mycroft shifted in his chair and John was reminded of when he had confronted the elder Holmes after the release of Kitty Riley’s tell-all article. “John—“ 

“No.” John ran his shaky hand through his hair, looking away from Mycroft toward the double doors and then back at Mycroft. He felt the stinging behind his eyes return, “Just…just tell me the truth for once, okay?” 

For a moment all three men were silent, John and Mycroft staring resolutely at one another as if battling it out purely through kinetic will. Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat and looked away, “Sherlock has not had an easy time these past eighteen months. While I offered him my help and the services of an elite squadron, Sherlock and I both agreed that, in the end, perhaps, it was best if the majority of his work was done completely under the radar. For the past eighteen months Sherlock has been traveling in an attempt to…extinguish Moriarty’s associates. We had very little contact while he was away. This was meant to protect all parties involved. Without my name attached to him in any way, he had less of a chance being recognized. And, should he be captured, Sherlock did not want to give away his closest relations. Ultimately, this plan was our saving grace.” 

John moved quietly to the chair kitty corner to Mycroft, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “And? The Congo?” 

“Things went….” Mycroft paused, as if considering which words would incite the least amount of panic in his brother’s friends, “poorly while he was in Riyadh. His identity was compromised and he was transported to the Congo.” 

“Transported?” John moaned, “You mean forcibly taken hostage.”

It was not a question so Mycroft did not respond with an answer; instead, he spoke with the air of a man who had all the authority of a King, “The situation was dealt with appropriately.” 

John scoffed, “Yeah…I’m sure. Well we can see how well it worked considering he was there long enough to contract some unknown disease.” He felt a bubble of anger and disgust and hopelessness and, worst of all, guilt, well up in his chest. It made his whole body tense in a way he hadn’t thought possible since his time in Afghanistan. 

Mycroft shook his head, “Please Dr. Watson, don’t misunderstand me. I…regret not acting sooner to extricate my brother but, unfortunately, I could not communicate with Sherlock for the majority of his time in Goma. Speaking quite openly, it was a miracle we found him. Moriarty’s connections are just as devious as their former leader.”

“How long?” John’s voice was muffled by his hands and he looked up at Mycroft to repeat himself clearly, “How long was he in the Congo?” 

“Fifteen days.” 

“Jesus…” Greg said under his breath as the news sunk in. 

John felt as if he was floating outside of his body. He never felt more out of control. For the first time since Sherlock had returned, John put himself in his friend’s position. Perhaps that explained why Sherlock looked so awful during the press conference or, come to think of it, when he visited John. 

John had, self-indulgently, thought that Sherlock had looked worse for wear because he no longer had a keeper to force food down his throat and threaten him to get him to sleep. Of course, it was something much worse. Sherlock always did have a flare for the dramatic. John felt himself grow queasy at this thought. And now, his best friend was alone and in pain in a hospital bed suffering from malaria, or cholera, or some other horrific illness. Why hadn’t he engulfed Sherlock in a hug when he had shown up on his doorstep a week earlier? Why hadn’t he continued going on adventures with him? If he had been with him this past week, would he have noticed Sherlock’s illness? Could he have prevented this? 

“John,” Mycroft’s voice silenced his thoughts and he looked up from where he had been staring at the floor, “If I hadn’t noticed the progression of my brother’s state then there’s very little cause to blame yourself. Sherlock has always been very adept at hiding…” 

John nodded but felt the tightness in his chest increase and the sinking feeling in his gut descend further. 

~*~

“He’s stable as of right now. The test results came back and taking into account his other symptoms it’s looking like Yellow Fever. Unfortunately, when it’s this far along into the toxic phase the only thing we can do is try to make him more comfortable and to attempt to lessen the symptoms. He has to fight this one on his own.” Dr. Hinley shook his head, removed his glasses, like he had done earlier, and wiped them off. 

“May we see him?” Mycroft spoke quietly, so unlike himself. 

“Of course. Well, you may. But due to his condition the ‘family only’ rule applies.” 

“I’m sure we can work around that.” Mycroft offered another one of his tight-lipped smiles that left little room for argument. 

Dr. Hinley appeared to have received the hint and nodded, saying, “If you’ll follow me then.” 

All three men followed the doctor past the double doors and down a long luminated hallway. Several turns later they found themselves in bustling ward. Dr. Hinley stopped outside the door marked 156 and nodded toward Mycroft, “We gave him some sedatives earlier so he will probably be asleep for some time.”

Mycroft pushed the door and held it open for John and Greg. 

Sherlock looked dead. It became painfully obvious to John that his best friend had lost more weight than he could afford to. His skin pulled tightly at his sharp cheekbones and his eyes appeared sunken further into his head. He had a yellow hue to his skin and John immediately noted the likelihood of jaundice. The only thing that fully assured John that Sherlock was, indeed, alive was the steady beep of the heart monitor set up next to his bed. IVs ran crisscross through his veins; and, upon reviewing his chart, John’s suspicions were correct that one was for fluids, one was an antipyretic in hopes of managing his fever, and the final was a mild analgesic. 

John set Sherlock’s chart back where he had found it hanging off the end of his bed and moved to his friend’s side. Lestrade, as if unsure of how to deal with the situation, came to stand awkwardly behind the doctor. And Mycroft, who appeared, for all intents and purposes, completely put out at being there at all, stood by the door, ready to bolt at any given moment (or well-timed phone call). 

The ex-blogger tentatively reached out and put his hand atop Sherlock’s pale thin one. The heat of his skin radiated through John and the doctor inside of him felt his nerves shoot out in all directions. Sherlock was horribly hot. Even without touching him John could feel the heat emanating from his ex-flatmate’s body. And yet, there was not a single drop of sweat pouring from Sherlock’s pale skin. How dehydrated must he have been when they brought him in? The detective did not stir once while John sat beside him, gripping his hand; he didn’t flinch when Greg stroked his forehead, or even when Mycroft ran a hesitant hand through his curls. 

~*~

Sherlock felt like he was swimming through molasses. His mind, which he treasured most, was barely cognizant. It stuttered between short bursts of intense consciousness and long periods of dark confusion and pain. He vaguely recalled meeting Lestrade for a case but then he wondered if it might have been all in his mind. He did dream an awful lot about his old life: consulting on murders, visiting Molly at Bart’s, arguing with Lestrade about the rights of a consulting detective when apprehending a criminal, and, of course, John. Always John. During his time away, he thought of little else in his spare time. Had he returned at all? He disappeared so often to the confines of his own mind that, for all he knew, he could still be laying in his holding cell in Goma. 

The day that Lestrade had called he had woken up from a particularly restless sleep and had an overwhelming urge to act as if the past 18 months had not occurred at all. And so he left his flat and met Lestrade at the crime scene where he was promptly overcome with the most excruciating pain. He had noticed how his head had throbbed over the past few days. Yes, he had suffered from fevers, chills, aches, pains, and vomiting but he attributed it to his poor immune system and his return to London via germ-filled air travel. 

And now Sherlock was severely confused, which rarely happened. In fact, the last time it happened was when he was in Goma. Or was he in Goma now? And then he sensed the warmth of cotton sheets beneath his body and felt a jolt of hope at the thought of being home. Of being somewhere safe and warm and needed. But even as he thought this, he was reminded of how vivid his mind was. How vivid all of his daydreams were. It was the only thing that got him this far (wherever that was). He could disappear into his mind, into his memories, when things became too much. 

Was he doing that now? God, how could he not know? He always knew. And now he was lying here wondering what was going on? His mind refused to supply the answers. Instead it chugged along slowly, almost painfully. In fact, his whole body ached. If he was still in Goma, this was not surprising. His limbs groaned at the slightest of movement, so Sherlock stayed still. He attempted to open his eyes but felt nausea rise to his chest. As consciousness began to creep over him, he began to notice that what was once a welcome comfort, the cotton sheets began to burn his skin. His bare legs and arms tingled and ached at anything touching it and Sherlock bit back a groan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock returns 18 months after The Fall, John doesn't think he can forgive his ex-flatmate. But he's shocked when he finds out about his friend being carted off to the hospital by an obsessed and infatuated media circus. What was originally brushed off as the common case of the flu turns out to be far deadlier and brings to light all sorts of dark secrets about Sherlock's time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some vivid descriptions of medical conditions and illness. If you haven't the stomach for it, continue at your own risk.

True to the doctor’s word, Sherlock was unconscious for the next several hours. During this time, Greg was called away on important phone calls three times until finally he felt he had prolonged his return to work for far too long. John agreed to call Greg should Sherlock’s condition change. Mycroft too returned to his work. Though, he made frequent visits to his brother’s bedside in between phone calls, emails, and meetings. By the fifth hour, John felt his eyelids beginning to droop but then, just as he was about to nod off, Sherlock’s fingers twitched and he groaned quietly. 

“Sherlock?” John whispered, leaning forward so he would be within his friend’s line of vision. 

The younger man began to twitch. He appeared to be prying his eyes open with sheer willpower and he whimpered quietly as the light assaulted his eyes. 

“Sherlock,” John smiled despite the situation; now that he saw the detective’s mercurial eyes, he felt a little tension leave his body. 

Finally, Sherlock’s gaze found his friend’s face and those ever-changing eyes squinted in confusion as turned his head to face John. 

The doctor reminded himself that Sherlock probably didn’t remember anything from the past few hours; and so John leaned forward, placing a hand on Sherlock’s clammy forehead to move some of his black curls from his eyes, “You’re in hospital, Sherlock. You’ve been very ill.” John hated speaking to Sherlock like he was a child but he began to feel the panic he experienced earlier in the day return as the look of confusion remained on his friend’s face. 

John stroked Sherlock’s forehead, almost unconsciously. Then he reached over to the side table and grabbed the small glass of water that the nurse had left there earlier, straw and everything. He put the straw to Sherlock’s lips, “Drink slowly though, you won’t feel too good if you start slurping it down.” Sherlock, strangely enough, did as he was told. Yet, the confused expression did not leave his face. 

By the time Sherlock had stopped drinking, John was frantic to make that look leave his friend’s face and so he began to ramble, “When I saw it on the news I—I panicked. I came as soon as I could. You know, that stuff I said earlier…when you came to visit me…I didn’t mean any of it. I—I guess I just didn’t know how to…you know…deal with it.”

John had been looking anywhere but Sherlock during his rant, and now that he had finished he found his eyes return to his ex-flatmate’s face. That look had not gone away. Sherlock, if anything, looked paler. 

“Do you—do you need anything?” John knew the desperation was evident in his voice and yet, he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

It was silent for a short while. John had removed his hand from Sherlock’s forehead but then just placed it lightly against his shoulder instead. He had an overwhelming need to just touch his friend. To make sure he was there. That, despite the illness, he was alive. And then Sherlock spoke. It was not his usual voice. In its place, a much quieter and raspy baritone whispered, “Date?” 

John leaned forward once again, “What?” And for one ridiculous moment John thought Sherlock was asking him out. 

“What’s the date?” Sherlock said in a hushed voice, moving his face closer to John’s in an effort to have himself heard better. 

John stared at the younger man’s yellowish face. Of course, Sherlock would ask the most random question and, perhaps thankful for a little normalcy, John smiled, “It’s November twenty-second. You’ve been here for…” John checked his watch, “thirteen hours.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock promptly turned his head away and closed his eyes. 

~*~

The next two days followed in much of the same way. Mycroft had managed to pull some strings and John was allowed to stay on a cot in Sherlock’s room. He barely used it. During Sherlock’s semi-conscious moments, he barely spoke. He spent most of the time shivering from fever, vomiting in a bin, or groaning, almost as if he was unaware of the noise he was making. 

While Sherlock slept, which, with the medication he was given, was most of the day, John read aloud from the newspaper or spoke about the years his friend had been absent. He often would ask questions as if the detective would somehow come to and offer a snide answer like his usual self. Often Greg would stop by to visit with John and check up on Sherlock in between his shifts. It was the most “catching up” John had done with him since before Sherlock’s death. The doctor hadn’t realized how much he had missed the detective inspector’s company. 

Mycroft made less frequent visits. When he did make an appearance, it was mostly to consult with the doctors outside his brother’s room in the hallway. He seemed uneasy seeing Sherlock in such a fragile state and John didn’t push the issue because he was sure the younger Holmes would rather wear Christmas sweaters for an eternity than to have his brother see him so weak. 

John had also received a very distressed phone call from Mrs. Hudson. Mostly because he didn’t want to distress his old landlady any further, John calmed her down and reassured her he would phone should Sherlock’s condition worsen.

Mary, bless her, had dropped by the hospital to offer her moral support and to also bring John some spare clothes, his laptop, and some light reading material. She smiled lovingly at John and patted Sherlock lightly on the hand and took her leave before saying quietly, “Call if you need anything.” 

When he wasn’t speaking aloud to Sherlock, monitoring his friend’s condition, phoning Mary to tell her he was still alive, or taking care of his own everyday needs, John spent a lot of his free time wondering what had happened to Sherlock while he was abroad. Mycroft had mentioned Riyadh and Goma. And so John took it upon himself to delve into research of the areas. In fact, he took it upon himself to research all the areas he thought Sherlock may have been. 

Looking through old international articles, John began to piece together a somewhat hazy puzzle. All of his research was guesswork, at best. He put together article after article that sounded like they may have been related to Sherlock in some fashion. But all of them were curious to say the least: “International Arms Dealer Arrested for Hit and Run” in Germany, “Prostitution Ring Discovered Through Decoded Messages,” in Taiwan, “Money Laundering Philanthropist Killed in Suspicious Automobile Accident,” in Peru. And so the articles got more and more dark. The closer he got to the Middle East the more John began to worry. If all of these were related to Sherlock, or even some of them were, Sherlock had been waging a one-man war against Moriarty’s syndicate. 

When he finally got to Goma he felt his hands begin to shake. Granted the Democratic Republic of the Congo was an area of tentative peace the majority of the time. But Goma. Goma was an entirely different ball of wax. The city, and even the entire Kivu province where it was located, appeared to be in a constant state of turmoil. Trapped between the DRC, Rwanda, Uganda, and a whole mess of rebel groups, Goma seemed to always be stuck between two warring clusters.

The political situation was one thing but the actual push to power was over the country’s mineral resources, largely used for the manufacturing of smart phones, airbags, and numerous other first world commodities. The situation sounded like the perfect bait for Moriarty’s men. Give one side enough backing and you can control an entire region for your own purposes. 

John wondered if Sherlock knew where he was going when he was taken. He wondered if he knew the extent of the syndicate there. He also wondered where he was kept, the conditions he must have lived in if he was liable to catch such an illness and then let it get to the toxic phase. He wondered if his friend had been tortured for information. Or worse, if he had been tortured for fun. He wondered how he got out of there. And most of all John wondered who he should thank for getting him out of there. 

By the third day John was exhausted and worried sick. He hesitantly took to his cot to catch a quick nap and was dozing off when he woke up to screaming. He fumbled for the light on Sherlock’s bedside table, his heart pounding in his chest. He reeled back at what he saw. 

Sherlock was sitting up clutching at his bed sheets. His screams did not come out bloodcurdling but in soft, short bursts. Deep and raspy from his illness. Sherlock was gasping for breath, his face ashen and glistening with sweat. 

“Sherlock?” John leaned forward, gently touching Sherlock’s bare arm, which caused his friend to jump and turn a wary eye toward the concerned doctor. 

“John.” Sherlock reached forward, shakily, grasping at John’s t-shirt to pull him closer. 

“Sherlock—you need to calm down.” John glanced at the monitors surrounding the detective’s bed and inwardly grimaced. “You’re very ill. You need to take a deep breath.” 

“I—I don’t have time.” He looked crazed. His curls were plastered against his head, his eyes wide and glassy, “You must get out of here,” he whispered as he looked around his shoulder, as if expecting Moriarty, himself, to come walking through the door, “You must get out—please. John, I—I can’t protect you here.”

“What?” John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s hands to try and pry them from his shirt. He only gripped tighter. 

“You must get out of here.”

“Sherlock—where? Where do you think you are?” It was then that John realized that Sherlock was crying. Though, not just tears. Large droplets of blood streaked down Sherlock’s yellow-tinted face. John’s felt his gut drop. His heart thunder against his check. Despite his doctor-voice telling him this was a common symptom of Yellow Fever, he barely felt he had the stomach for it when it was his friend’s tears he saw. 

“I don’t know how they got you here.” Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, blurred over now with tears, and his brows furrowed, “Perhaps—Mycroft…I—I don’t know. You must get out of here! Please, John—please—before they return.” 

John felt his friend’s hands shake and he gripped them more firmly between his own, “It’s okay, Sherlock. You’re safe. You’re just recovering from an illness. Take a deep breath.” 

“No—no, no, no…” Sherlock reached up and gripped his hair, a sight that was so familiar it made John’s heart clench, “What have they given you? Have they given you anything?” He looked up and reached for John’s face to peer into his eyes. 

“What?” The doctor reached for his hands, pulling them gently away from his face, “Sherlock—they haven’t given me anything—I don’t know—“

“John! Please—listen to me—“ Sherlock’s voice was harsh and he gripped John’s lapels tightly, “they will break you. You must leave. Before they come back, please, you must—,“ the deep baritone broke off as the door opened and a pudgy-faced nurse entered. Sherlock groaned and released John’s jacket, falling back against the pillows. 

“Mr. Holmes? We heard some commotion…”

“Nurse! I do not know this man and I would like him removed from the room immediately.” 

“What?!” John felt the air leave his lungs, “Sherlock—what are you talking about?” 

“Nurse!” Sherlock’s voice cracked and he swung an arm up to cover his face, “Please—this is far too much.” 

‘He’s delirious,’ was John’s first thought. He tried not to take it personally but the fear in Sherlock’s voice before the nurse had come in and the complete indifference afterward shook him to his very core. This was not Sherlock. Just as he thought this, his friend groaned and shuddered. He covered his face with his hands and gripped his hair tightly. 

“Mr. Holmes, you need to calm down, you’ll make yourself sicker.” The nurse had hurried to the bedside, attempting to check his vitals as Sherlock stubbornly turned his back on her. 

“He’s making me sicker. If Travis intends to have me well enough to meet Moran in a few days, then I suggest you remove this stranger from my room immediately,” Sherlock had turned his face into his pillow, smearing the blood from his eyes all over the white linen. Even as he said this, his voice shook and he gasped in pain from the movement. 

“We will have him removed, immediately. I’ll go get security.” The nurse, whose nametag read Jillian, shared a knowing look with John, which relieved some of his tension and fear of being forcibly removed. She turned her back and rushed out the door, presumably to get a doctor. 

“Sherlock, what the—“

“I have to get you out of here. Even if you won’t save yourself, maybe I can force you…” Sherlock turned to glare at him angrily but it seemed off. In fact, the way he was moving his entire body seemed off. Unlike his usual feline grace, his movements seemed jerky and tight. He picked at the bed sheet moodily, and turned to stare at John, running his tongue over his lips as if he had just eaten a particularly satisfying meal. 

“Sherlock—how do you feel?” John leaned forward, to push Sherlock’s sweaty hair from his face. 

His friend swatted his hand away, smacking his lips as he did so, “Is this really the time, John?” 

“Yes. Considering you’re very ill and bedridden in a hospital, I think it’s the perfect time.” John grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands, observing his dilated pupils and flushed face. “Answer me. How do you feel?” 

Sherlock just turned his head and smacked his lips together, “I—I—“

Quite suddenly, Sherlock’s body tensed up and he let out a low grunt. John took a step back. Even before the convulsions started John knew it was a seizure. Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and he fell limply against the pillows only to have his limbs snap back against his body seconds later. John pulled up the railings on the hospital bed, hoping it would keep Sherlock from falling off and causing even more damage to his already abused body, while simultaneously looking at the clock to time how long the seizure would last. This was the worst part. John could only sit at wait for it to end, taking solace that, at least Sherlock was unconscious for this part. Keeping one eye on Sherlock he pushed down on the call button near his friend’s bed several times to call for a nurse. 

John felt like time had slowed down. Why had no one answered his call yet? Why was Sherlock still seizing? Good Lord, it felt like it had lasted hours when, at a glance at the clock on the wall, it had only lasted half a minute. Sherlock was still convulsing wildly on the hospital bed. Already, several pillows had fallen off the mattress. John was grateful that he had had the foresight to pull the security railings as Sherlock thrashed, his body violently knocking against them. It was a minute and 45 seconds before the door burst open to reveal a calm and collected pair of elderly nurses whom John recognized.

“How long?” One of them asked as she reached for several vials on a counter near the door and the second one came over to attempt to take Sherlock’s pulse. 

“A minute, fifty-two seconds.” John replied, hardly recognizing the doctor-voice that came out of his mouth despite the inner turmoil that was churning in his stomach. 

But, finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock stilled. John and the nurse turned him onto his side, should he vomit in the aftermath of his convulsions. Instead, Sherlock’s body was slack. His muscles no longer pulled tightly against his body but instead they laid limply where they fell. 

The nurse who had been gathering vials drew out a clear liquid from one and inserted it into one of Sherlock’s medication IVs. She smiled tightly at John before explaining herself, “It’s a mild anesthetic, to help with the pain. I’ll go get the doctor.” 

John nodded and watched as the other woman helped to clean up Sherlock with the practice ease of a career nurse. Sherlock had not moved. The ex-soldier stood quietly in shock while the nurse tried to get Sherlock out of the tangled mess of sheets so she could change his gown and bedding. Finally John seemed to notice his lack of movement and leapt forward to help the woman, “I’m sorry. I just…I’m sorry…”

The nurse smiled at him, “My name is Abby. I understand. No matter how long you’ve been in the business it’s never the same when it’s someone you love.” She shook her head and threw the bedding she had just untangled from Sherlock’s long legs on the floor.

John turned away while she changed his friend out of his soiled hospital gown. Something told him Sherlock would be more than slightly horrified if John were to see him in this state. When she finished, John helped her lift Sherlock to another bed while they changed the sheets and bedding on his own. By the time they had Sherlock back situated comfortably on his original bed, he was starting to come to.

The nurse excused herself as John came to stand by Sherlock’s side, taking the long, spidery fingers in his hand, “Sherlock?”

The man in question opened his quicksilver eyes and stared dazedly at John’s face. Those eyes which were once so sharp and intelligent appeared foggy and confused. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but instead only a groan came out. Blood-red tears formed again at the corners of the detective’s eyes and John rushed to smooth sweat slicked curls from his friend’s face. 

“Shhh. It’s okay, Sherlock. You just had a mild seizure.” Mild. Even as John said it, he felt panic well-up in his chest at the thought of Sherlock convulsing so violently again. “It was probably caused by your fever. They’ve given you some medication to help with the pain.”

Sherlock shook his head, the bloody tears only falling faster, and John felt horrified at the thought of his immovable friend brought to his knees by disease. 

“You’re going to be fine, Sherlock.” John felt his voice waver but continued saying soothing words as he leaned down to kiss the distraught man’s forehead. 

“No.” John pulled back at Sherlock’s whisper and stared down at his gaunt and bloodied face. Sherlock had never looked so fragile than he did right then. His eyes were sunken and his face skeletal. But more than anything, his eyes were wide. Desperate. John had seen that look before. He had seen it 18 months ago while Sherlock stood dangerously close to the edge of a building. (‘Please will you do this for me?’) He thought he’d never see again. Sherlock licked his lips and brought a shaky hand to John’s wrist where it rested against the side of his face in an attempt to wipe some of his tears away, “I’m going to die, John.” 

John felt the breath knocked out of him. He felt a familiar dread well up in his chest, constricting around his heart and windpipe like a snake. Anxiety wrapped around his body like a cloak and he wondered if he was reliving some sort of nightmare where Sherlock was walking along the edge of a building again like a circus performer on the tightrope and John was standing helplessly below with no net to catch him. 

“No.” John’s voice came out a strong definitive tone. He would not allow this to happen to him again, “No. You will not die.” 

Sherlock stared up at John, his eyes wide and breath shallow. But John didn’t see desperation there anymore. Instead, it looked as if it was surprise and…esteem? John felt Sherlock’s fingers slide down from his wrist to his fingers where he clung to them, “I…I thought I’d never see you again.” Sherlock’s voice was just a ghost of his usual deep authoritative tone. He sounded small. Scared. 

John smiled, “It’s harder than that to get rid of me.” 

Sherlock smirked, his thumb rubbing circles into John’s palm, “I should have never doubted you.” 

“You won’t make that mistake again once you’re out of here.” 

Sherlock’s grin fell slightly and he looked away from John toward the numerous machines standing by his hospital bed like watchmen standing guard. 

“Don’t.” John gripped at Sherlock’s fingers, “I need you here.”

Sherlock glanced back up at John, the long column of his throat glistening with a sheen of sweat, his curls plastered against his forehead and down the side of his cheeks, “I thought you couldn’t risk it?” 

John shook his head, “I was an idiot.” 

“Obviously.”

And with that, John let out a little huff of laughter. It was so Sherlock. So arrogant and said so carelessly that John felt his eyes prickle with the familiar beginnings of tears. Instead he leaned forward, pushing his face into the crook where Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder. He expected his old friend to push him away disdainfully but, instead, he felt long spindly arms wrap loosely around his shoulders. 

The tears John had been trying to ward off suddenly seemed to spring free while he hid his head in Sherlock’s curls. He pulled back when he heard the door open, wiping his nose, and staring guiltily at the wet spot on Sherlock’s blue hospital gown. He glanced at Sherlock who, despite being bedridden, sweat drenched, and more ill than John had ever seen him, looked as if whoever had just entered the room was not worthy of his time or attention.

John turned to face Dr. Hinley, who, perhaps as a nervous habit, cleaned his glasses, as if taking off the spectacles would give his patient and friend the privacy they had a minute ago. Clearing his throat awkwardly, the doctor came to stand at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, reaching for the chart and flipping through the pages, “Well Mr. Holmes, what do you remember about the past few hours?”

Sherlock bristled at the question but whether it was because of Hinley’s tone or because of the fact that Sherlock, who remembered everything, was struggling to remember the past few days, “I am aware that I suffered a tonic-clonic seizure.” 

Dr. Hinley looked toward John, giving him a knowing glance, and stared down at Sherlock’s chart with a little more determination, “Do you remember anything before that?”

Sherlock looked away, toward the machines again, refusing to answer. 

John stared at his friend but when it became apparent that Sherlock was going to be his usual stubborn self, the doctor in him stepped forward, “Prior to the seizure, Sherlock suffered a brief period of delirium. His heart-rate picked up to a dangerous level and he was under a lot of duress. It’s probably what caused the seizure. But I’m not sure I know what caused the delirium.” 

Hinley pushed his glasses up his nose and put the chart back at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, “I’m afraid I have the answer to that question.”

“Afraid?” John clenched his fists compulsively. 

“We lowered his dose of Panadol to see if he could fight the infection on his own. It was the only way we could see what stage he was at.” 

“You risked him potentially going into a coma to see ‘what stage he was at?’” John gave Hinley a disbelieving look, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

At least Hinley had the intelligence to look slightly uneasy. He swayed awkwardly on his feet, “I would never needlessly endanger the lives of any of my patients Doctor Watson. Unfortunately, with Yellow Fever, there are few ways to be sure if the worst of it has passed or not.” 

The doctor in him agreed but seeing Sherlock so helpless and scared and sick made John reluctant to approve. Instead he stood up straight and glared holes into the doctor in front of him, “So, obviously, it isn’t over yet.”

“Unfortunately not. We’ll keep Mr. Holmes on a rigorous medication plan for the next few days. But…” Dr. Hinley’s eyes moved to behind John to stare at the bed-ridden man behind him, “if this fever should keep up for much longer I fear there may by permanent damage.” 

Behind him, John could feel Sherlock tense. He had done all that he could to convince Sherlock that he was capable of fighting this. That things would return to normal in no time. That, no matter what happened in the Congo, or the Middle East, or wherever else Sherlock had been, he was home now. He was here. He was safe. But no matter how much John tried to mean the words he said, he couldn’t protect Sherlock here. He couldn’t protect his friend from himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock returns 18 months after The Fall, John doesn't think he can forgive his ex-flatmate. But he's shocked when he finds out about his friend being carted off to the hospital by an obsessed and infatuated media circus. What was originally brushed off as the common case of the flu turns out to be far deadlier and brings to light all sorts of dark secrets about Sherlock's time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you experience triggers to violence or blood, you may want to reconsider reading this chapter.
> 
> I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter but it'll have to do. I suspect I've gotten myself into a long term engagement with this fic but I can't help myself. If you have any thoughts or ideas please feel free to share!

The next several days were spent rather quietly all things considered. Sherlock was given a generous dose of painkillers and spent the majority of his time drifting in and out of uneasy consciousness. When he was cognizant, he was miserable and John spent much of his time cringing in sympathy. 

Sherlock talked in his sleep. He twisted and turned and moaned and groaned. He puffed out insults and whimpered names John did not recognize. Often, he screamed. He screamed in ways John had never imagined him capable. Since the reinstallation of Panadol, his friend had not experienced another full-blown delirious outbreak but he more than made up for it through vivid nightmares; so vivid that the ex-soldier found himself looking around as if he expected Sherlock’s dreams to be real life. 

John had barely gone back to the flat he shared with Mary. He went only to shower and pick up spare clothes. Mary spoke soothing words to him over the phone but, despite all her mollycoddling, John yearned to hear the condescending tones of his best friend. The “obviously” he had spoken to him days before seemed more like years and with every hour John felt himself lose a little more hope that things were going to be alright. 

He found himself waking up from nightmares the likes he hadn’t had since he’d been invalided home. They always began the same. He was back in Afghanistan. It was quiet. One of those calm before the storm moments in war that made men tense with anxiety and pull pranks just to lighten the mood. John quite possibly thought the beginning of this nightmare came from a memory. He was spending his time cleaning the leftover remnants of the previous group brought in from the frontline. And somehow, in the back of his mind, dream John knew he would have been there too. If, at the last minute, the Lieutenant Colonel hadn’t decided to send in a new batch of RAMC recruits to give the senior officers a break, John would be a body in a bag right now. 

All of the sudden there was commotion everywhere. The walls shook and he could hear screaming from outside of the makeshift barracks. John rushed to where he kept his gun, on the desk in the corner of the crowded room. Next to his Browning sat his medical kit, but he didn’t give it a second thought before he grabbed his gun and left the kit on the table. 

He had to shield his eyes from the sun when he finally got outside. There were bodies everywhere. Bodies of strangers. Bodies of acquaintances. Bodies of friends. But John felt his stomach clench when he caught sight of bloodied curls behind a pile of debris. John stumbled forward, ignoring the bullets whizzing overhead and not giving a flying fuck where they landed. All that mattered was getting to the man who wore those curls like a crown. 

And there he was. Just like in his nightmares. Just like on that day that he had been trying to forget for over 18 months. But unlike that day, those ever changing eyes were not unseeing. Instead, Sherlock was blinking rapidly and looking around as if the answer to some great puzzle was hidden somewhere in the clouds. 

John let out a huff and blinked back tears before kneeling before his friend, “Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m here to help. Where are you hurt?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then blood began to pour from it in bright red spurts. John felt frantic and patted desperately at his friend’s body to find some sort of injury. Even Sherlock looked shocked and he began to claw at John’s forearms. Hurriedly, the doctor turned the bloodied man on his side to make sure he didn’t choke on the liquid gushing out between his lips and then he looked toward the medical barracks in hopes of finding enough courage to make the trek back to find his kit. 

But there was no medical barracks. There was nothing there. Only desert. 

John jumped up hastily and left the protection of the debris Sherlock and himself were hiding behind. There was no more gunfire. No more shouting. No more bodies. There was nothing. John turned back to Sherlock and was startled to find the detective lying in a pool of his own blood. And not just a little pool. There was blood outlining the lanky man’s entire body; staining his clothes and soaking his dark hair. 

John fell to his knees by his friend again. So much blood was pouring from his mouth he was beginning to choke on it despite being on his side. Perhaps sensing this, Sherlock turned on his back to look at his friend. His eyes were wide and scared and John felt tears pouring freely from his own. Why had he not grabbed his medical kit? Why was there no one here? Could no one help? Where was all this blood coming from? And where was the injury? The doctor cradled his friends head in his lap. He felt his whole body shutter as Sherlock began to choke. 

Sherlock reached up to grab John’s hand. He gripped it tightly between his own and then placed it over his heart. John reached down to push that great long Belstaff coat to the side, away from his chest. There, where his heart should be beating steadily, was a grisly hole. Skin had been ripped a part, leaving bare muscle, tissue and bone. But, there was hardly any blood seeping from the wound. 

John stared down at the torn flesh, the butchered muscles. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand where he still held it against his stomach and gurgled, blood running down his chin to pool between his clavicles and neck. He was scared. John knew it. He could see it in his eyes, feel it in the shaking of Sherlock’s body, hear it in his gurgles and gasps. He had seen in countless times with men coming back from the frontlines. But there was nothing for it. John hadn’t a clue how to even begin to go about fixing Sherlock. So he sat there. Helpless. Frightened. His eyes so blurred with tears that he could barely make out Sherlock’s bright blue ones gazing back at him. And then Sherlock gasped, moaned, and finally stopped moving all together. 

Whenever he had this dream he woke up with sweat pouring from him like water from a well. Sometimes, dream Sherlock would close his eyes after his last breath. Sometimes they remained open like after the fall. Sometimes he just gurgled and choked and suffered until John finally shook himself awake, just to put an end to the dreadful feeling. Always, John reached out to touch real Sherlock. Often he ran his fingers over the unconscious man’s face and chest, just to make sure there wasn’t any blood. 

He found that not sleeping was easier. By the third day, John could barely keep his eyes open long enough to get food into his mouth. Mycroft had been visiting more frequently since the seizure and finally, after seeing John struggle for 30 minutes to get a single piece of toast down his throat, he convinced John to “go home” after much patronizing, finally having to resort to veiled threats. “Besides, I haven’t had a chance to check on 221B since Sherlock’s illness,” the official added quietly, “perhaps you could make a stop there to pick up a change of clothes for him.” 

John was secretly relieved that Mycroft had suggested staying at Baker Street rather than going back to the flat that he shared with Mary. Seeing her right now seemed wrong somehow and the thought of it left a funny taste in his mouth. And despite the turmoil he felt at returning to the flat he had once shared with Sherlock, he knew he was ready to go back. He had to be ready, he was needed. He couldn’t imagine the mess Sherlock had left it in since both John and Mrs. Hudson weren’t there to clean up after his tornado-like tendencies. He expected he’d be spending much of his time there cleaning rather than resting. 

He was, however, not expecting the media circus waiting for him outside the front door of 221B. From the confines of the sleek black car Mycroft insisted he take, John cringed at the reporters, bloggers, and general gossipmongers milling about the street. 

“Sir? Would you like me to call Mr. Holmes and set up a barrier?” The suited man driving the black car asked John quietly. 

The reporters, having noticed a mysterious car with tinted windows up against the curb, began to swarm. John felt his resolve falter. He should’ve just returned to his flat rather than come here. But staring at the front door, the familiar gold address gleaming back at him, John thought back to when he first met Sherlock here. And then he thought of Sherlock’s bloodied face, though whether it was from a dream or reality, John could not tell. He owed him this. At least. 

“No, I’ll just squeeze past. Hopefully, they’ll lose interest once I get inside. I’ll call if they don’t leave by tomorrow morning.” John nodded with determination, opened the car door, and shielded his eyes against the flashing lights that met him. 

He could barely see. He felt like he was standing at the forefront of a nuclear bomb, with all the bright lights gleaming at him. He could barely hear over the shouts of the so-called reporters but John remained stoically quiet as he pushed his way forward. He had had the good wit to think ahead and have the keys Mycroft had lent him out and ready and he pushed the door open and tried to ignore the questions being thrown at him.

“Dr. Watson, is Sherlock Holmes dead?”

“Does your return to the flat you both shared signify your renewed partnership?” 

“How is the detective’s health?” 

“Can it be confirmed that Sherlock Holmes is fighting the last stages of cancer?” 

“Has Mr. Holmes’ drug habits returned?”

And so on and so on. 

When John finally closed the front door behind him, he felt himself let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He had finally made it all the way to the living room and the front window where he looked down on the mob that had gathered below. Immediately, he regretted pushing the curtains aside to look down on the horde that had gathered because they soon spotted him and pointed their cameras upward to get the iconic ‘heartbroken looking out a window’ photo they could all post on their blogs and publish in their newspapers and magazines. 

John angrily drew the curtains shut, only allowing the barest of light to shine through. When he finally turned around to face the room he knew so well he felt the situation finally catching up with him. The room lacked the character he had come to associate with it. It was still, quiet. There wasn’t chemistry equipment crowding the kitchen, no skull sitting sulkily on the mantle place, no grisly photos or puzzles tacked to the walls, no piles of books or newspapers, and no Sherlock. Most of the detective’s things appeared to be there, just packed up and hidden away in the numerous boxes that sat in the corners of the room. 

John took off his jacket and threw it over some of the boxes. He pushed up his shirt sleeves. The placed smelt uninhabited. In fact, it smelt worse than uninhabited, it smelt sickly. On the coffee table and sitting at the foot of the couch were dozens of empty teacups. This isn’t where the smell was coming from then. John walked down the hallway and warily pushed open Sherlock’s bedroom door. But it was as if Sherlock hadn’t set foot in the room since he had returned. Not a thing out of place. In fact, it looked as if the entire place had been used for some sort of promotional photo. From what he could tell, the bed hadn’t even been sat on. The dresser drawers unopened. 

John moved on to the bathroom and discovered where the smells must be coming from. This room looked more lived in than any other room thus far. John could only imagine how sick Sherlock must have been to have been spending the majority of his time laying before the porcelain throne. At the foot the toilet, there was a makeshift bed made up of a combination of towels and blankets. The sheer stink of the cloth had John immediately grabbing them to throw in the wash. Sherlock must have thrown up on them, or near them. There were specks of blood on some of the towels and John shivered before throwing them in the washing machine. 

He went back to the bathroom to try to and clean up what he could. The countertop was a mess. There were several pill bottles including several that must’ve been prescribed to Sherlock upon his return. Sleeping pills, a mild anti-biotic, and to John’s dismay, anti-anxiety medication. John gathered the bottles and put them in the medicine cabinet. He collected the Kleenex thrown carelessly aside, the empty glasses and teacups left on the floor, and, randomly enough, several melted bags of peas that Sherlock must’ve been using as ice packs. 

When he had finished in the bathroom he cleaned what he could in the living room. He even began to unpack some of the boxes left strewn about. When he finally looked at the clock he was shocked that it was already well past dinner. He turned away from where he had been trying to put away Sherlock’s vast collection of books to look at the couch on the far wall. Sherlock’s yellow smiley face remained where he had vandalized the wall and John grinned slowly and shook his head. 

He remembered the day Mrs. Hudson had called him up, some 6 months after Sherlock’s funeral, and told him she had to get rid of the monstrosity gracing her walls if she were to find a new lodger. She had asked him to come over and help her re-wallpaper and he had agreed because he felt guilty for pushing her away, for not visiting, for not being man enough to go back to the flat he had once shared with his best friend. 

When he had arrived he felt a wave of nervous energy hit him but Mrs. Hudson, with her kind words and gentle nudging, helped him to reenter the flat. Together, they spent the better part of an hour staring at the wallpapered wall. The smiley face grinning back at them and bullet holes shamelessly telling their story. After 45 minutes of trying and retrying to approach the wall, Mrs. Hudson finally turned to John and said, “Sod it. I’ll make tea.” 

They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting against the wall opposite of the smiley face and exchanging stories. It was the happiest John had been in 6 months. But it didn’t last. When he went back to his bedsit that night, he had his usual nightmares, except this time there were significantly more yellow spray-painted smiley faces in them. 

Now, as John bumbled around the flat, he couldn’t help but be thankful that Mrs. Hudson had decided to keep the flat as it was before Sherlock’s death. He suspected that Mycroft had something to do with that but didn’t dwell on the subject. He poked his head in the refrigerator and was unsurprised to find nothing edible inside. Rather, there was nothing inside at all. John wondered if a trip to the grocers was practical and he shimmied his way to the front window again to peak out. 

The reporters had not left. If anything, the crowd looked more amped up then when John had first made his appearance. Jesus, didn’t these people have anything better to do? John scrolled through his options and his stomach gave a loud grumble in response. He made up his mind and dialed a number. 

“Greg?” John felt relieved to hear the Detective Inspector’s voice on the other line. He hadn’t realized how quiet it had been in the flat until he had spoken aloud, “Listen, there’s a paparazzi mob outside of Baker Street. I can’t possibly get out of here without attracting some sort of attention and I’m starving in here.”

On the other end of phone, John could hear Greg excusing himself from a meeting, “I had a feeling that’s where they would go next. We had a few out here earlier this morning. They can’t seem to get enough of Sherlock. Well, how about I come over in, say, 15 minutes or so with some takeaway. I need a break anyway and you can fill me in on Sherlock. Mycroft told me you’d gone back to 221B when I called this morning.” 

“Yeah. After being practically threatened otherwise. I could do with the company though. And the food.” John smiled into the phone as Greg agreed to be by as soon as he could wrap up his work and stop by the Thai place on the way from the station. 

While he waited for Greg, John wandered the flat as if he was wandering through a museum. He was sure that if he were Sherlock he would be able to tell a lot from the clues left behind. But all John could see was the emptiness of his old home. 

He wandered upstairs to his old room and pushed open the door, expecting it to be as bland and bare as he left it all those months ago. Rather, just as the bathroom had appeared to have been lived in, so too, was his old room. His bed was a mess of sheets and thick blankets. There were several books lying about. On the bedside table were opened medication containers, used Kleenex, empty glasses. In the corner of the room, in the old chair John had purchased from an army friend, were a pile of clothes. John, not knowing what hit him, perhaps sentimentality, ran his hands over his friend’s used clothes.

On the very top were Sherlock’s pajamas and blue dressing gown. He must have thrown them there when he got dressed to meet Lestrade on the day he passed out. Something about this makes John’s heart clench strangely in his chest. The fact that Sherlock had taken to sleeping in what used to be his old room, rather than downstairs where he was, not only closer to the toilet, but also closer to where the action was, made John wonder what exactly was going through his friend’s head. 

John sifted through all the old clothing lying on the chair, debating whether or not he should throw another load of laundry in tonight. He stopped short when he reached the very bottom. It was one of his jumpers. An old one at that. One that he must have forgotten here when he moved away. It was well worn and when he held it up to get a better look he could only smell Sherlock on it. 

John couldn’t take much more of it. He grabbed all the linens from the bed and the clothes and brought them downstairs to the laundry machine where he haphazardly threw things in. While he had been cleaning the flat he had more than convinced himself that Sherlock would be returning. But standing there in the kitchen, knowing that Sherlock had spent the better part of the week in the throes of illness, not only in 221B by himself but also in John’s old room by himself, John felt his muscles tighten and his heart squeeze. It had been his own pride keeping him from his best friend. He had lost him once and now he was close to losing him a second time because he had been too pigheaded to admit that losing the mad detective the first time had nearly killed him. 

The more John thought about it, the more he thought about Sherlock’s face when he first came to John after returning. The look of acceptance so clearly painted on those sharp features had John beginning to wonder if Sherlock knew his only friend would be so cruel. Why had he turned him away? Why had Sherlock expected him to turn him away? 

And now, with Sherlock sitting at Death’s doorstep John could only feel terror at the thought of having to say goodbye a second time. But perhaps even more terrifying was what was waiting for Sherlock should he return to 221B. John wouldn’t be there. Mrs. Hudson was quite the force but not one that could go toe-to-toe with Sherlock, even on his best day. The memory of the sleeping and anti-anxiety pills sitting quietly in the medicine cabinet gnawed at the back of John’s mind. 

Obviously, Sherlock could barely take care of himself as it was. The truth that he had come back more damaged than when he had left made John theorize what would happen if Sherlock should recover from his illness only to have to deal with the emotional tidal wave that was bound to hit shore. John remembered what it was like returning from hospital after being invalided. While he had been recovering in the ICU his only focus had been on survival; on breathing, in and out, in and out. But once he had been released. The real struggle began. The memories alone haunted him. But the emotional turmoil of having once been at the top of his game and then ruthlessly cut down made him struggle to get out of bed in the morning. The pressure of “being somebody” of “returning to doing good” made him stumble. It made him wish he had never recovered. 

And now, with the media waiting for Sherlock’s prodigal return after his rise from the dead, the pressure would, no doubt, be immense. Sherlock needed time to recover. Physically and mentally. He needed help. Whether he would admit to aloud or not, John knew that his friend needed him. Guiltily, John thought of Mary and of the life he had built up for the two of them in his mind. It was built up on false hopes and lies. It was built up on the idea that John would, one day, have to settle down. Mary didn’t deserve anyone settling for her but John had turned their relationship into that. As he considered moving back into Baker Street, John saw clearly for the first time in weeks. 

And then the doorbell rang and John shook himself out of his thoughts. It would all be clearer in the morning. He jogged down the stairs and opened the front door. Lestrade managed to squeeze himself through without bringing any of the paparazzi scum with him. 

“Jesus…I’ll have to get some men out here before I leave. You can barely move from curb to door without them trying to drown you.” The detective smiled gently at John as he lifted his hand to reveal a plastic bag carrying several Styrofoam containers of Thai food, “I come bearing gifts.”

The two men sat quietly in the living room, picking at their meals. Despite John’s growling stomach, he found he didn’t have much of an appetite. It appeared Lestrade mirrored his thoughts. 

“How is he?” Greg finally asked gently, pushing noodles around on the lid of a Styrofoam container, as if that would make it more appealing. 

“About the same as before, I suppose.” John made no attempt to hide his frustration. 

Lestrade cleared his throat, “And how’s that?”

John stared up at the man sitting before him. Greg looked hopeful but the doctor knew what false hope did to families with loved ones in the hospital, “Not good. Not good at all.”

Greg took a deep breath and shook his head, “I thought as much. I was hoping for some good news. Thought that maybe you leaving his bedside meant something good, you know?” 

Irrationally, John felt tears begin to well up again and he took a steadying breath to right himself again. “I wish, Greg. I’ve never seen him like this before. It honest to God scares the hell out of me.” And with that John found himself letting go entirely. Vaguely he heard himself divulging his fears and anxieties. He heard himself tell Greg all about Sherlock’s delusional episode and the seizure that had resulted from it. He voiced is concerns about what had happened to their friend in the Congo. It was as if every thought that had crossed his mind in the past few days was regurgitated out in word vomit, and John was helpless to contain it. 

Finally, after what seemed like days but was probably no more than a few hours at most, John sat quietly. The stillness in the room was palpable but John couldn’t bring himself to break it. 

Greg licked his lips and looked down at the Styrofoam lid full of cold noodles that sat on his lap, “When I first met Sherlock, he had O.D.-ed. I don’t know if it was on purpose or not but, when he came to, later, in the hospital, he looked…disappointed.”

John couldn’t help but lean forward anxiously. The subject of Sherlock’s past had been somewhat of a taboo topic during their time together. And while there were certain hints and sometimes odd insights, John had never gotten the courage to ask his friend about it. 

“I don’t think he was trying to survive back then. But he’s trying now. And you’re helping. And I guess so are the rest of us in our own small way. But you…he’d live for you, John. I don’t want to freak you out or anything but when you moved in with him we all saw it. He was, for the lack of a better word, alive. “

John felt heat rush to his face at the statement; he had heard it a dozen times before but it didn’t matter because knowing that he had made an impact on Sherlock’s life was incredible. The wonderful, fascinating, maddening man who had saved an old invalided army doctor’s life and, in return, perhaps that same army doctor was making his own small mark. But he couldn’t let the comment slide without voicing the real concern, “But, even if he does recover to become his usual arrogant self, what about after all that? Greg, something happened in the Congo. I don’t know what, I don’t know if I’ll ever know what, but something happened. I found sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication in the bathroom. He can’t recover mentally with the pressure the media is putting on him, let alone his own body. I just…what are we going to do?”

“Support him, I suppose. What else can you do? What helped you when you got back? I mean, I know they’re not the same thing; but in your own ways you were both off fighting a war. What helped you when you got back from yours?”

John sat back thoughtfully, Greg had a point, “Sherlock did.” 

“Maybe this it’s your turn then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock returns 18 months after The Fall, John doesn't think he can forgive his ex-flatmate. But he's shocked when he finds out about his friend being carted off to the hospital by an obsessed and infatuated media circus. What was originally brushed off as the common case of the flu turns out to be far deadlier and brings to light all sorts of dark secrets about Sherlock's time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thoroughly apologize for such a late update. It seems the real world has been knocking and I couldn't ignore it any longer. This chapter is a bit of a break from all the medical hoopla. All chapters thus far have not been beta-ed or brit-picked. Should you feel like you're up for the job, let me know.

John woke up slowly and surrounded by Sherlock’s scent. Greg left late in the night after he had some of his officers set up a police boundary to ward off the media. That, of course, wouldn’t stop the die-hard paparazzi that seemed to be hiding in trees and underneath cars to get the perfect shot of the grieving ex-blogger. So John took his time getting ready that morning, hoping that, by the time he left for the hospital, all the errant photographers would have gotten bored and left. 

He finished the laundry, cleaned up the take away Greg and him left on the coffee table, and attempted to unpack a few more boxes. And then his phone rang. The sound was almost shocking after spending the morning quietly alone. John scrambled to pick it up as the phone vibrated along the side table. He didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID and felt his heart pound painfully when he heard the cool tones of Mycroft Holmes’ voice on the other line. 

“They took him off the Panadol earlier last night,” the voice said quietly, “After several hours of observation, the doctors agree that the worst of it is over. They’re allowing my brother to fight the rest of the infection on his own. So far, Sherlock has been nothing but vocal in his discontent.”

“I’ll be right there.” John hung up, threw on his jacket, and ran out the door without giving a second thought to the media circus that had been there only 10 hours before. 

John could barely follow a single train of thought the entire cab ride to the hospital. At first, he tried to think of all the things that should be done before Sherlock was released from the hospital. And then he thought of the blood red tears that had stained Sherlock’s face the last time he had had a real conversation with him. He thought of the vague statements he had made during his delirium. Then he thought of their time together. He thought of the shy smiles Sherlock threw his direction every time John complimented him. He thought of the ashtray Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace just because John had mentioned it. And he thought of Sherlock’s face lit by the computer screen when he had accused John of believing all the media’s lies, the look of dejection masked by bland acceptance. 

He could barely remember the walk to Sherlock’s hospital room but when he arrived the door was ajar and John could hear Mycroft’s nasally voice through the crack. 

“—understand that you’re recovering from a serious illness; not to mention the aftermath of…your time away.” 

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse but loud enough for John to hear and he stepped aside so his back was to the wall next to the cracked door, “Don’t treat me like a child, Mycroft. “

“Then stop acting like one. You knew the sacrifices you were going to have to make. You cannot expect your life to continue on as if nothing happened. As if you weren’t gone for 18 months. It’s simple physics. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Just so, actions have consequences, Sherlock.”

It was silent for a moment and then Sherlock whispered, “It was worth it?” It was a formed like a question which confused John. Usually, Sherlock was firm and decisive; it was undeniably odd to hear such vulnerability from him. 

Mycroft’s answer was soft, almost tender, “Of course. You’ve seen it yourself.” It was quiet for a moment before Mycroft spoke again, his usual authoritative command firmly back in place, “I shall leave you to rest, dear brother.” 

Before John could hide or come up with a decent excuse as to why he had been standing there obviously eavesdropping, Mycroft opened the door and gave the doctor a knowing look, “Perhaps wait a few minutes?” The elder Holmes suggested as he walked away down the brightly lit hallway while swinging his umbrella, “I’ll be returning in a few hours.” 

John leaned against the wall outside the hospital room door. Sherlock had sounded more aware than he had in all the time he had been admitted. But he had also sounded lost and vulnerable. So unlike himself that John wondered how to even begin talking to his best friend. And then he reminded himself, ‘this is Sherlock.’ Conversation had always come easy to them. Even when John had found Sherlock at his most irritating they had always found something to talk about. 

When John had finally summoned enough courage to walk through the door, Sherlock had already started nodding off again but he came to with the sound of John’s footsteps. 

“John?” At the sight of his ex-flatmate, Sherlock tried to sit a little straighter in bed, “What are you doing here?”

John thought that a stupid question but didn’t let it show on his face while he sat down in the chair that had, no doubt, been previously occupied by Mycroft, “I’ve been here ever since you were admitted, Sherlock. Don’t you remember?” 

The consulting detective frowned, “I wasn’t sure how much of that was reality…” Sherlock adopted a look that wasn’t dissimilar to the expression he assumed while trying to solve a puzzle. 

“Well,” John smiled to see such a familiar expression on his friend’s face, “I’ve been here. Mycroft had to practically threaten me last night to leave and get some sleep.” 

“Probably due to the doctor’s decision to take me off of the antipyretic. I vaguely remember your disapproval.” 

John grinned even wider, “You remember correctly. And you’re probably right. Mycroft, the sneaky git, knew you were bound to be taken off Panadol and saw fit to get rid of me before I had a strop.” 

Sherlock smiled slightly but it looked strange on his thin, ashen face and John was reminded that this was not the indestructible consulting detective he wrote about in his blog but instead his ‘more-human-than-he-would-like-to-admit’ best friend. 

“How’re you feeling, by the way?” John was tempted to reach forward and tuck one of Sherlock’s fly-away curls behind his ear but he resisted and instead clenched his fists tightly where they rested on his thighs. 

Sherlock let out a wheezing breath that John surmised was supposed to be a laugh, “About as well as can be expected I suppose. The fever isn’t at a dangerous level, they assure me. But it feels like my skin is trying to crawl away from me.” 

“That’s probably the fever chills. Are they giving you anything else besides fluids right now?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Once I was cognizant they took away the pain medication.”

He didn’t have to explain why. John knew that the NHS and most healthcare facilities had strict protocols on treating recovering drug addicts. And whether Sherlock had used months ago or decades ago, he would always have the flight risk of relapsing attached to his name. 

“Any other symptoms that maybe they can help with?”

“No. I suspect it will get worse before it gets better. Might as well cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Sherlock looked exhausted. His cheeks were flushed red with fever but the rest of his face took on a sickly yellow hue. He was thinner, much thinner than any good doctor would condone. His sunken eyes were glazed over, giving them the appearance of frosted glass and his wild curls clung to his sweaty forehead. But he was looking at John with a recognition the doctor thought he might never see again. It was glorious. More than glorious, it was a miracle. 

John found himself fighting off both tears and laughter at the same time. He ended up in some sort of maniacal giggle-sob that made Sherlock give him his familiar “social conventions confuse me” look. It only made John laugh harder. Tears rolled freely form his eyes and he finally reached forward, happily, to grasp Sherlock’s hand in his; damn his pride. 

“I’m sorry,” John finally managed to get out, “I’m just so very glad to see you.” 

Sherlock, if possible, looked more confused, “If what you told me was true you’ve seen me for the past week or more.” 

John shook his head because no matter what he said, Sherlock would probably never understand. It was sentimental and foolish but John could not be happier to see his friend’s puzzled expression, “Don’t worry about it. Listen, you look exhausted, you should get some sleep.” 

Sherlock look pointedly down at their conjoined hands and raised an eyebrow. John released Sherlock’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Oh sorry. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“No.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blush with embarrassment, “I—I don’t mind.” Gracelessly, Sherlock left his hand palm up where John had dropped it and it looked sadly empty sitting there all alone. 

John didn’t care if it was in bad form, he reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand again and settled more comfortably into the chair by his friend’s bedside. 

It was silent for some time and John closed his eyes to get a little bit of rest, hoping that Sherlock would take a hint and follow his example. But then the raspy deep voice spoke again, “If it’s any consolation,” it said quietly, “I am very glad to see you, as well.” 

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own, pleased that Sherlock squeezed back. 

~*~

When he opened his eyes again it was well into the evening and Sherlock was sleeping fitfully in his bed. John knew that fighting fever the natural way would not be easy; but, he could not help but feel relief at the sight of beads of sweat dripping from Sherlock’s brow and the tip of his nose. John imagined that every drop was draining the disease away from his friend’s body. He happily cheered them on. 

Mycroft made another visit, as promised, and agreed to watch over Sherlock while John stepped out to call Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, informing them on the change in their friend’s condition. Mrs. Hudson told him she would be making her way back to London in a few days’ time and that she would be sure to have the house clean and ready for her tenant’s return. The delighted tone of her voice betrayed the business-like statement of tidying the flat and before John hung up Mrs. Hudson broke down with a sob, whispering, “I just don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d have lost him a second time.” John silently agreed but assured her he was in good care. 

Lestrade, on the other hand, yelped happily into the phone receiver, stating matter-of-factly, “He’s just too stubborn to go down with something like that.” He agreed to visit tomorrow afternoon after Sherlock rested a bit more, even though he was wired with excitement and made several threats to “come down there right now to knock some sense into him for scaring us all like that.” 

John also called Mary. He knew she was worried. More likely for John himself than for Sherlock, whom she had never met and had only been acquainted with through John’s embellished stories. She was, as he expected, supportive and overjoyed with the good news. He briefly toyed with the idea of bringing up his fleeting notion of moving back in with Sherlock but the sound of her voice, so kind and sweet, made him reconsider. Instead, he suggested that she come by when Sherlock was feeling a little better; if not to meet the great detective himself than to, at least, have lunch with him in the hospital cafeteria. 

When he was finally all done with all the phone calls and had gotten himself something to snack on, he returned to Sherlock’s room where Mycroft promptly excused himself to “take care of some international affairs which cannot wait.” It wasn’t much longer before Sherlock began to come to again. John chewed cheerfully on his crisps and grinned when Sherlock’s glassy gaze found him sitting at his bedside, just as he had left him. 

“Welcome back to the land of living,” John smiled and leaned forward, closer to his friend. He was ridiculously giddy with the sight of Sherlock and he could barely contain the excited energy that felt fit to burst from his veins. 

Sherlock grunted, nodded, and then winced at the movement. 

“I think they’re going to run some more tests. Just to make sure you’re on the road to recovery and all that.” John shoved the last few crisps in his mouth and threw the bag into the bin by Sherlock’s bedside table. 

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes sleepily, “There’s nothing I look forward to more.” 

“You okay?” John knew the question was silly, considering Sherlock was worn and weary laying in a hospital bed but the doctor part of him couldn’t help it. 

“Tired.” 

John reached forward and pushed an errant curl away from Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes. His friend still had a yellowish hue to his skin which worried him slightly. He would be relieved once they collected a recent blood sample. Once he could see the evidence of Sherlock’s recovery on paper. 

Sherlock closed his eyes once John’s fingers brushed over his brow, “I’m glad you’re here.” John was absolutely certain that Sherlock didn’t even know he was whispering aloud.

“Of course I’m here.” John murmured and stroked gently at the inky curls, which seemed to act as a cheap hypnotic, sending the younger man into a light doze. 

Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch, “I thought of you often…” The words being spoken were barely audible and John leaned in to hear clearly, “Actually…I thought of you all the time.”

John smiled fondly. Sherlock was running on empty. Despite only being awake for a few minutes his immune system was pushing for rest. He was still fighting a low grade fever and after the tribulations his body had endured for the past few weeks, it was no wonder it was shutting down without his consent. 

“I thought of you, too.” John ran his index finger over Sherlock’s brow, down those infuriating cheekbones, and along his philtrum before cupping his jaw to subtly check his pulse. 

“I’m only resting my eyes.” The baritone voice mumbled. 

John chuckled and silently counted beats before replying, “I think you should. Rest your eyes, I mean. I’ll make sure they’re open for the blood withdrawal.” 

Sherlock muttered something and turned his face into his pillow, his eyes closed and breath shallow. 

It was surreal hearing that Sherlock had thought of him. Not only was it surprising but it was a little breathtaking. Sherlock was John’s best friend. He had been before…and he would continue to be. But the doctor had always assumed that the enigmatic consulting detective was above such human conditions. After all, caring was not an advantage. His actions on Bart’s roof proved contrary. Not only was he entirely able but it appeared that he felt more deeply than anyone had ever dared believe him capable. John barely had time to reflect on it when a nurse came in and smiled happily at the two men, “We’re just going to run some tests.” 

“I thought you guys might be making an appearance.” John sat back but not before gently patting his companion on the cheek, “Sherlock, they’re here.”

Sherlock grumbled quietly but opened his eyes, “Take what you need.” He muttered while throwing an arm out from underneath his blanket and exposing the soft flesh of the crook of his elbow. 

The nurse chortled and went to work quietly, professionally taking multiple blood samples, collecting print-outs from the machines lining the bed, and even taking a urine sample from Sherlock’s catheter bag, “We’ll be back with the results by tomorrow evening. I think Dr. Hinley wanted to check out Mr. Holmes’ progress,” she noted before taking her leave. 

The room was left in silence once again and John secretly wanted to resume his tactile exploration of his friend’s face but refrained. When had he become so touchy-feely?

Sherlock’s hoarse voice snapped him out of his reverie, “You should leave.”

“Excuse me?” 

“It’s been some time since you’ve slept in your own bed, John. I’m feeling significantly better and this is the perfect chance for you to excuse yourself from overseeing my care. There’s nothing for you to do here but watch me sleep, which sounds horrifically dull.” Sherlock said all of this with his eyes closed and John was promptly reminded of all those times when the detective would solve cases from the couch, curled up in his robe and mind palace. 

John was very tempted to say, ‘Maybe I like watching you sleep,’ but quashed the idea quickly and brutally. Nothing said creepy stalker like watching someone sleep. Besides, that was decidedly not “a friend thing to do.” When had he started doing things like this? Jesus, maybe he did need sleep. It had been quite some time since he’d seen Mary too, “You’re probably right.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Of course I’m right.” 

John grinned despite his friend’s arrogance, “Well, I’ll be back in the morning then.” Without thinking John sat up, threw on his coat, and leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, running a hand through the black curls as he did so. His lips tasted the salt that still clung to Sherlock’s skin but he didn’t even give it a second thought. In fact, he didn’t think about it at all until he was halfway home and stuffed between some overweight banker and a Uni student with a penchant for facial piercings in a crowded underground train. 

“Shit.” John swore quietly as he walked the four blocks from the station to the flat he shared with Mary. What was he thinking? What was he doing? It was too late to change anything. And even if he could, would he want to? Friends kissed friends all the time. Besides, it wasn’t even a real kiss. It was like the kisses his mother gave him before he left for school. But his mother had definitely not groped his face and stared at him while he slept. Well, if she had, John didn’t want to know about it. 

He desperately tried to remember what Sherlock had looked like when he had left. Had he been uncomfortable? Or asleep? God, John hoped he hadn’t ruined anything with the thoughtlessness of his actions. But it hadn’t been thoughtless. It had been natural. John was so unbelievably delighted to see Sherlock. Especially after having disregarded him so harshly after his initial return. He honestly didn’t even care about rethinking his actions. Life was too short. It could change in an instant. If the fall hadn’t taught him that, then Sherlock’s illness had. He wouldn’t question these things anymore. He would just do it. 

He just hoped to God Sherlock would see where he was coming from. That his actions wouldn’t ruin anything. 

By the time John arrived home it was nearly 10pm. Mary was sitting on the couch, balancing a cup of tea on her knee while she watched a re-run of EastEnders. She looked surprised to see him but unquestionably pleased, “I wasn’t expecting you,” She smiled widely and got up off the couch to meet John at the door, setting her tea down on the coffee table as she moved.

She kissed him soundly on the mouth, pulling John against her as she nuzzled at his neck, “How’s the patient?” She whispered into the sensitive spot just behind his left ear. 

John breathed in the scent of her, wrapping his hands around her waist before pulling back to look into her eyes. It felt like a lifetime since he had last looked into those eyes, “He’s doing much better.” John didn’t elaborate. Not because he wasn’t ecstatic about Sherlock’s improved condition but mostly because sharing his friend’s circumstances with Mary seemed strange. As if he was intruding on Sherlock’s privacy by doing so. He didn’t dwell on the thought though and pulled Mary to him again to kiss lightly at her neck, “I missed you, though.”

Mary sighed contentedly and ran her fingers through the short strands of hair at the base of John’s skull, “I missed you, too.” 

This could easily lead to sex. John knew it could. She was pliant under his hands, her body curving in to meet his, back arched under his touch. And, despite being a red-blooded male, John couldn’t imagine having sex tonight. The entire Sherlock ordeal had left his body weak. His mind exhausted. Emotionally, he was on cloud nine after seeing such a change in his friend’s health; but he hadn’t even had the chance to sort through the wreckage that was bound to rear its ugly head once Sherlock was more…Sherlock-y. 

Just a few hours ago John thought about bringing up the possibility of moving out with the woman who was now nipping playfully at his collarbone. Christ, he needed to sort through this mess. And fast. 

“Mary,” John almost whispered and she stopped in her ministrations to give him a questioning look, “I’m sorry. I just…I’m so tired. And there’s a lot to sort through and…”

Mary smiled softly, “It’s okay, John.” She ran her hands down his biceps and forearms to grip at his wrists, “I’m sure you’re knackered.” 

John nodded, “And I’m going back early tomorrow morning. They’re running some more tests and I want to be there for the results.”

“Of course.”

“Listen,” John paused and debated bringing this up but decided to trudge forward anyway. The least he could do is breech the topic, “there’s going to be a shit storm when this is all over.”

Delicate blonde eyebrows turned inward and the creases in Mary’s forehead became more noticeable as she frowned up at John, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I stopped at Baker Street today and there were nearly two dozen photographers and journalists standing outside waiting to pounce. They’re mad for him. It’s going to be like sending a bunny into a cage full of foxes.” 

Mary’s frown deepened, “I hardly think Sherlock Holmes qualifies as a bunny rabbit.” 

John smiled sheepishly, “True. But…I don’t know if he’ll be able to handle this on his own. At least, not quite yet.”

“You’re a good friend John Watson.” Mary leaned away from him, her smile suddenly sad and distant. 

A sudden panic gripped John and he reached forward to stroke at the underside of Mary’s wrist, “It’s a good thing he’s got me. I just wanted to warn you in case things may get a little crazy around here.” 

“Okay.” Mary stood on her tip-toes and placed a feather light kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, “Let’s get to bed. We both have to be up early.”

John was thankful that he didn’t have to go into much more detail. Mary understood. At least she understood the gist of what he was trying to communicate. Perhaps, she was right anyway. Sherlock was no docile bunny rabbit. He was tough. Everyone knew that. Look at how he had dealt with Anderson and Donavan for all those years? Maybe John worried too much about him. Once he was released, and settled in 221B he would be fine. Even when John was living there Sherlock hardly noticed when he was absent. Mary didn’t deserve John moving out “temporarily” when even an idiot could see that it could very well turn into “permanently.” 

John made up his mind. He would do what he always did. He would take care of Sherlock and live his life at the same time. He had managed it perfectly fine all those months ago. John could still make sure his friend took care of himself while also maintaining a healthy adult relationship. The only real difference would be that John would be sleeping a few tube stations away. The next couple of months would be slow enough with Sherlock’s recovery to allow for John to find a happy medium. 

As John climbed under the cold sheets of the bed he shared with Mary he couldn’t help but think of his bedroom back in Baker Street. He imagined Sherlock curled up in his bed, under all his blankets, wrapped tightly in his jumper. He smiled into the darkness that shrouded the bedroom but it faltered when he felt Mary’s cold feet against his legs, seeking out his warmth and eventually nudging themselves under his calves. 

John closed his eyes and tried to focus on the toes wriggling beneath his legs and the blonde tresses spread out on the pillow beside his own. He tried not to think about the taste of cool salty skin and the feeling of silky curls. He definitely did not think of a deep raspy voice and inappropriate jokes made at a crime scenes. John fell asleep smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock returns 18 months after The Fall, John doesn't think he can forgive his ex-flatmate. But he's shocked when he finds out about his friend being carted off to the hospital by an obsessed and infatuated media circus. What was originally brushed off as the common case of the flu turns out to be far deadlier and brings to light all sorts of dark secrets about Sherlock's time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough for how sporadic my updates are. To be fair, my internet is also sporadic so I'm using that as an excuse (albeit a pretty lame one). I really truly appreciate all you guys who are reading it and sending out your positive vibes. It means a lot to have a following. I'm trying to find ways to get this story out there. Hearing back from you guys really helps to motivate me.

“Mr. Holmes’ liver reading is still slightly high, as to be expected, but his fever is low-grade and his heart rate has returned to normal.” Dr. Hinley stood at the foot of Sherlock’s bed with his eyes glued to the clipboard he held. John couldn’t blame him. The ill detective had regained much of acerbic tongue and had used it shamelessly and frequently throughout much of the morning. It would be hard for anybody to stand there and fear having the foul nature turn on them. 

“So I can leave?”

John snorted at Sherlock’s question but quickly shut his mouth at his friend’s icy glare. 

Dr. Hinley shook his head, deciding to ignore the exchange between the two men, “I’m afraid not. We’ll need to keep you under observation for the next few days in order to monitor your liver function and keep an eye on any other changes with your heart, brain, or other major organs. There’s a slight risk for what’s called a cytokine storm in which your immune system overcompensates and can begin to attack your organs. It’s a very slight risk, but a risk all the same.”

Sherlock groaned and threw an arm up to cover his eyes. John rolled his eyes at the dramatics but managed to hide his grin behind his hand. It was good to see some of the old Sherlock.

“Well, when can I leave?” Sherlock spoke into the crook of his elbow loudly enough for the room to hear him. 

From nearby the door, Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat, “What my brother means to ask, Dr. Hinley, is how long is the expected recuperation time for Yellow Fever?” 

“Barring no further complications? We could be sending you home under GP observation in another week. That’s not to say that you’ll be 100% by then. You’ll probably be dealing with a few of the less serious symptoms for months to come. Fatigue, occasional nausea, joint stiffness, and muscle soreness.” 

Sherlock groaned from his place on the bed and one would think the doctor had just informed him that he would be spending the rest of his life in the hospital. 

John decided this was probably his cue to step in, “One week is pretty good Sherlock. I mean, just a few days ago you were unconscious.”

“What am I to do for an entire week?”

“I’d suggest resting.”

“Resting? Rest is boring.”

“Just like breathing then, huh?”

Sherlock smirked from underneath his arm, “I may have underestimated how fascinating breathing can be.”

“You won’t be making that mistake again, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed.” 

Mycroft awkwardly cleared his throat from the corner of the room, “Well, thank you very much Dr. Hinley. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we are grateful for your professionalism.”

Dr. Hinley nodded and left the room hurriedly in an effort to duck from the line of fire. 

John sat down in the chair by Sherlock’s bedside, “Maybe we can persuade Lestrade to give you some cold case files while you’re here?”

Removing his arm from his face, Sherlock turned to stare at John and nodded slightly, “Yes. I think that would be wise. My mind must be kept occupied.” 

“Yes, yes, yes. We all know Sherlock. ‘Without the work, it rots.’” John attempted to poke fun at Sherlock’s manic devotion to the work but as his friend turned to look out the window near his bed the mood of the room shifted rather suddenly into something darker and more distressed.

Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides, “Yes. I’ll rot.” His voice was hushed and his tone vacant, as if he didn’t realize he had been speaking at all. 

“Sherlock?” John leaned forward to get a look at the younger man’s face. 

The tap of an umbrella distracted him. Mycroft had made a swift move to his brother’s bedside, where he took post blocking the window from his view, “Sherlock.” His voice was firm and it appeared to have shaken the younger Holmes out of whatever room in the mind palace he had been trapped. 

Back was the arrogant man John knew well and he curled his upper lip at his brother for blocking the window, “Mycroft, your sheer girth is rudely hindering the only view I’ve had of the sunlight in days.” 

“Ah, I apologize for my thoughtlessness.” Mycroft moved aside, sharing a meaningful look with John who was still halfway between sitting and leaning over Sherlock’s bed with a look of utter confusion written all over his face. “I believe it’s lunchtime, is it not?” 

“Well, you would know.” Sherlock waved his hand in direction of the door as if to shoo his brother away. 

“You should probably eat something, Sherlock.” John spoke up as he again took a seat. 

“Not hungry.” Sherlock settled into his pillows and closed his eyes, as if he were ready to fall asleep there and then. 

“Sherlock…” John gave a disapproving groan.

“I’ll eat later. I’ve data to sort through.” Sherlock waved his hand again in the vague direction of his room’s door. “Go. Eat. Drink. Be merry.”

John rolled his eyes and looked up to where the elder Holmes was frowning at his brother’s horizontal form. 

“John, would you like to join me for lunch? There’s a lovely café across the street.” Mycroft’s voice was in full pretentious mode.

Sherlock groaned louder, “Please. John. Go. Leave and he will leave with you. You’ll be killing two birds with one stone. You get to eat and I no longer have to deal with my brother’s atrocious presence.” His eyes were still closed, and he took on his thinking pose. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at John who nodded, “Okay. Let’s go.” 

~*~

Fifteen minutes later John found himself sitting across from Mycroft in a boutique-y café. It was strange seeing the British government sitting in a cramped restaurant waiting for a soup and sandwich. While he was living with Sherlock, John often wondered if Mycroft ate or slept. He seemed more machine than his younger brother. And yet, here he was, sipping contentedly at a cup of black tea.

John cleared his throat determinedly, “What was that in there?”

Mycroft set his cup of tea down and looked out the window they were sitting near at the façade of the hospital, “The beginnings of a panic attack, perhaps?” 

“What? You can’t be serious.” John shook his head at Mycroft’s words. 

“I’m quite serious, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft looked back at his lunch partner and frowned, “Sherlock, when he was young, used to retreat to his mind palace like monks would retreat to their round towers during attack. He used it as a way to push away reality. He became rather accomplished at it. Even during his more…dark periods, he had the most remarkable ability to clear the static of the world around him and focus on the entirely made up world of his mind palace. I rather envied him.”

John stared in shock at Mycroft’s words. It was probably the most surreal experience he had ever had with the elder Holmes brother. To hear about Sherlock’s beloved mind palace from someone who had known him longest was odd. But to hear about a younger, more naïve, Sherlock was stranger yet. 

“But I believe that Sherlock’s mind palace has been, for lack of a better term, invaded. His body is weak right now. His mind, however, may be just as weak. He is only a man, despite his ravings stating the opposite.” 

John frowned and went to pour more milk into his tea just for something to do instead of respond to Mycroft’s statement. He was saved for several gracious minutes while the waitress brought their meals to their table. 

“What happened to him?”

Mycroft took a bite of his sandwich and wiped his hands against the cloth napkin lying across his lap while he swallowed, “I’m not entirely sure, unfortunately. I do know that in the months leading up to his capture, Sherlock was having a more…difficult time remaining as distant as we had previously agreed he should. I’m getting new information on Sherlock’s time away every day but…I haven’t the courage to look at all of the material found yet.”

John squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, “Well, what do you know?”

“I know that when we found Sherlock, he wasn’t entirely himself. Physically, he was not…well. Mentally, I have no idea the damage done to my brother. He spent several weeks in a safehouse in southern Italy to recuperate. I had a trusted psychologist there to evaluate Sherlock’s mental status but he was rather unsuccessful. I actually learned more from the nursing staff.”

John tapped his fingers again the sides of his cup, “And? What did you learn?” He was getting tired very quickly with Mycroft’s all-knowing-politician persona. 

Mycroft shifted in his chair—the only hint that he was uncomfortable about releasing any more information, “I learned that Sherlock spent much of his time in captivity in the depths of his mind palace. And I learned that he often struggled to separate reality from his mind’s creations. Whatever trauma my brother suffered at the hands of the M-23 and Moriarty’s men left him trying to cope using an alternate reality of sorts.”

“His hallucinations?” 

“Likely due to his illness and his heightened fever but I believe that it no doubt was related to his time away. Sherlock probably spent his time falling in and out of a made up world.” 

“Christ…” John ran a hand over his face, “What do we do?”

“We soldier on, Captain Watson.” Mycroft gave John a sad tilt of his lips and took a sip of his tea, “I believe before Sherlock took gravely ill he was doing much better. Despite physical weakness he seemed willing to continue on with his old life.”

John looked down at his cup feeling his world zero in on the swirl of the tea and milk. He struggled to string a coherent thought together. He struggled to even think in terms of words. He thought in images and the look on Sherlock’s face when he thought John had come to save him from the Congo. The look of terror that John would sacrifice his life for his friend’s. Isn’t that what Sherlock had done? 

“John—“ Mycroft seemed hesitant, which was unusual but not entirely unwelcome, “I don’t expect you to drop your life to help my brother. And neither does Sherlock. He left London to ensure that you and others could continue to live. I know my brother acts like a child at times, but he is capable of selfless acts on occasion. He never does anything by halves.” Mycroft grinned as if he was telling an inside joke and then he suddenly turned serious and looked out the window again, “I only ask that you remain a good friend to him. He has never fully appreciated the depth of feeling people may have for him. Having you by his side can only speed his recovery.” 

John swallowed heavily, trying to tempt his eyes into not watering. He bit his lower lip and squeezed the fork in his hand tightly. Finally, after he deemed himself capable of speech without embarrassing himself, he cleared his throat and sighed loudly, “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else than by his side to help him through this.” 

Mycroft smiled, “Sherlock doesn’t want you to give up the life you made for yourself, John.”

The doctor cleared his throat again, still feeling the well in his chest move north toward his sinuses, “He’s my best friend, Mycroft. I owe him my life. In more ways than one. The life I live now would mean nothing if it wasn’t for him.” 

The elder Holmes nodded. He leaned back in his chair and loosened the tie around his neck, “Just don’t sacrifice your happiness for his health. He would never forgive himself.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” John ran a hand through his hair, as was becoming his habit and felt his hand begin to shake as a strange and unbidden thought swept through his mind, What if they’re one and the same?

~*~

The next several days were a mix of deep relief and outrageous frustration. The more Sherlock’s health improved the more John felt hopeful for his full recovery. But the longer the consulting detective spent in the hospital the more it seemed that he was quickly losing his sanity. 

Lestrade brought cases every day and Sherlock jumped on them like a starving man who had just entered an all-you-can-eat buffet. He flipped through pages of case files and poured over crime scene photos with the sort of desperation few could relate to. If it wasn’t for Sherlock being bedridden and dressed in a hospital gown, John could almost imagine him pacing back at Baker Street. 

Sometimes Sherlock would become quiet and still. Usually after he had solved another one of the cases left at his bedside. He would withdraw and curl around himself as if protecting his body from something. There were times when John felt a need to curl up beside his friend. Let him know that he wasn’t alone. But he refrained. He watched him closely but would let him be. Sherlock would usually snap out of it on his own and John felt comforted that his direct interference wasn’t required. 

Mycroft managed most of the publicity issues but John had caught glimpses of the headlines on his walk to the hospital and sound bites from newscasters on entertainment shows. All of which were absolutely ridiculous testaments to the famous detective’s condition and outlandish predictions to what caused the breakdown in the first place. When John finally came across The Sun’s proclamation ‘Famous Detective Battles Brain Parasite’ he couldn’t put off talking to the press any longer. 

The stories were only going to get more outrageous the longer someone waited to update them on Sherlock’s condition. This was the problem with the first time they began reporting the detective’s success. They found ways to twist facts to suit ludicrous statements and that was part of the reason Sherlock had been absent for so long. 

And so the good doctor spoke to Mycroft who agreed with him. John felt that putting Sherlock in front of the press during this particularly volatile time would be a huge mistake. Convincing Sherlock to remain quiet in his hospital room was another thing entirely. John felt a knot of anxiety at the thought of bringing the press conference up to his best friend so he brought it up the only way he knew how: by blurting it out during a peaceful calm. 

“I think we should hold a press conference about your illness.” John cringed at the random outburst and waited for Sherlock to laugh the idea away. 

“Well it certainly is newsworthy.” Sherlock said dryly and with all the sarcasm he could muster before returning to reading. 

“Look, all the headlines and news stories are getting to be beyond absurd. Just the other day the Daily Mail reported that you had poisoned yourself with a homemade chemical mixture in order to prove a hypothesis.” 

“Poetic.” 

John sighed, “Seriously, Sherlock. If we don’t act now they’re just going to believe all the rubbish they read in the papers.”

Sherlock set down the scientific journal he was reading and stared at John from where he was propped up in his bed, “Who cares? People will believe what they want to believe.”

“I care. I just don’t want this to affect the work now that you’re back.” John stood his ground. He would not let this turn into another Richard Brook situation; even if it didn’t seem nearly as detrimental, he would stand behind his friend and protect him in any way he could. 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow questioningly, “Fine. If it’s so important to you, do what you will. I hope you don’t expect me to participate.” 

The older man let out a breath and relaxed into the chair he was sitting in, “Of course not. I’ll be there on your behalf.” 

“You? Why? I thought you didn’t want to become involved.” Sherlock stared at John like he had grown two heads. 

“I’m your friend. It’s too late to not be involved. Besides, your health is always important to me and the work is tied to that so I’ll do what I can.” 

Sherlock sat still for several moments and then gave a slight nod before returning to his journal. “When will it be?”

“Sometime before your release. We want to give them a false lead on when you’ll be leaving hospital so that we can get back to Baker Street without too much trouble.” 

“Inventive.” Sherlock said derisively but John ignored it and smiled. The doctor would take the biting behavior as a blessing. 

Mycroft managed to schedule the press conference for two days later. Dr. Hinley and John would be in attendance and Lestrade had agreed to act as a mediator if it was required. The paparazzi, as everyone knew, could be brutal and John only hoped that Sherlock’s recent return would sway their questions to a more positive note. 

There were over 20 reporters waiting for them to arrive in the conference area of the hospital. Lestrade looked at John and nodded before marching out on stage and taking his place on the far left side of the table in front of the room. Dr. Hinley and John followed moments later. 

“Hello and welcome. I know the press has been very curious regarding Sherlock Holmes’ condition and recent hospitalization. Hopefully, by the end of this press conference we can clear up any questions, concerns, or theories you might have.” Lestrade said into the microphone, not bothering the hide his disenchantment with journalism on the whole, “We’ll begin with Dr. Hinley’s assessment of Mr. Holmes’ state.” 

Dr. Hinley nodded, pushing up his glasses, as was his nervous habit, and leaned in toward the microphone, “Thank you Detective Inspector. On November 22nd Mr. Holmes was brought into the A&E after collapsing outside of a crime scene. We identified the cause of this episode to be cardiac arrhythmia or a slowed heartbeat. His condition was severe enough that the medics arriving on the scene had to act quickly to bring his heartbeat to a somewhat normal rhythm and stabilize his condition.” John smirked inwardly at this. Mycroft, John, and even Dr. Hinley himself had decided to lessen the severity of the symptoms slightly. They all feared that announcing that Sherlock’s heart had stopped en route to the hospital would incite panic and no doubt a flutter of false accusations and made up theories. It was already bad enough the poor man was in the hospital at all; Sherlock would no doubt resent anyone treating him like he was made of delicate glass. 

“Upon examining him in the hospital it was apparent Mr. Holmes was suffering from a rather serious condition.” Dr. Hinley continued, “He exhibited a dangerously high fever and symptoms similar to influenza. But perhaps what ended up giving us the decisive diagnosis was that his bile and sputum contained blood. We ran a number of tests and, with the aid of family and friends, we managed to narrow down the condition to Yellow Fever.” At this, the doctor cleared his throat and preemptively added, “Yellow Fever is not common among this part of the world but with Mr. Holmes’ extensive travels, it is most likely that he picked it up while abroad.” 

Before anyone could blink an eye, a reporter was standing up near the back of the room, “Would vaccinations have prevented this illness, Doctor?” She was dressed in a bright blue business suit and was clearly a veteran journalist. She stood calmly, acting for all the world that she hadn’t just interrupted the flow the conference. It was clear she was here for a reason and that reason was to get her questions answered, damn the informative prologue. 

Dr. Hinley opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade quickly leaned over to place a hand over his microphone, “And you are?” 

The woman smirked, caught red handed, “Veronica Flemming of The Strand Telegraph.” 

Greg huffed quietly but removed his hand and nodded toward Dr. Hinley who once again opened his mouth to respond, “Yes. In most cases, vaccinations would have prevented this. Just as it would with most identifiable infectious diseases.” 

John decided to jump in, it was now or never, he thought vaguely, “As you well know, Ms. Flemming, Sherlock was doing most of his traveling under the radar. Vaccinations were somewhat hard to come by.” 

Ms. Flemming, in turn, raised an elegantly drawn-on eyebrow at John’s conclusive addition and nodded, “I suppose my next question then would be how—“

Lestrade jumped in once again, interrupting the woman quickly, “There are a dozen other reporters in the room Ms. Flemming, they all have questions awaiting answers. Perhaps one of them will ask a few on your list.”

Veronica Flemming sat down elegantly and not at all looking like a child scolded. One would think she had just arrived at a business meeting for all of her detached poise. 

Several other reporters jumped up at the interruption. So it had begun. 

John answered questions as calmly and collected as he could but he worried about Sherlock’s reaction to his answers once he returned to the hospital room. He knew that John’s “Sherlock is feeling significantly better, he’s practically foaming at the mouth to get back to work,” would bring out the derisive nature that his friend had perfected. 

After the expected questions, the “How is Sherlock now?” and “When can London expect him back on his feet?” the reporters moved to a decidedly more personal nature. Veronica Flemming headed the war path.

“How was the reunion between the two of you Dr. Watson? Were you aware of Mr. Holmes’ whereabouts this past year and a half?” John felt that the blue outfit made her look like the girl from the original Willy Wonka movie and he’d happily pay someone to roll her out of the room like a giant beach ball. 

John plastered a fake polite smile on his face and leaned toward the microphone, folding his hands in front of him to keep them from balling into fists, “I had no idea about Sherlock’s whereabouts. I, like the rest of the public, thought that Sherlock was…gone, the day he jumped from Bart’s roof. I…I spent the last year and a half mourning him.” John cleared his throat, “So, you can imagine when he showed up at my doorstep still very much alive I was…shocked. Overwhelmed. Confused. I honestly can’t describe to you all the emotions I felt that day.” John gave a derisive chuckle, “I’m still trying to figure out all the emotions I feel. But Sherlock’s illness definitely put it in perspective and now I mostly feel so incredibly grateful that we have a second chance.” 

When he had finished John immediately regretted laying so much of his heart and the private relationship between himself and Sherlock out for the reporters to see. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and saw Veronica purse her lips in thought before taking something down in her notebook. 

Quickly in the silence that followed another reporter stood, his paisley tie crooked on his neck, “Adam Beech from The Union. Are you to continue your work with Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?” 

“We haven’t actually discussed any of that in detail yet.” John scooted forward and licked his lips in an effort to bide his time, “Things will be different. The last year and a half have moved our lives in separate directions. That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to continue helping Sherlock out while he’s on cases but ultimately it can’t be the same as it was before…our priorities have changed. I think we’ll continue to be very good friends but I’m not sure how much assistance I’ll be able to provide in the future.”

Lestrade cleared his throat quickly, darting in to grab the microphone before any other journalists could pop up like unwanted weeds, “I think that’s all the questions we have time for today, ladies and gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes will be spending the next several weeks recuperating from his illness and I’d thank you all not to pester him during this vital recovery period. That means staying away from his home when he is eventually transferred there in a weeks’ time.” 

As he finished his conclusion, Lestrade stood and nodded toward John and Dr. Hinley who followed suit. All made their way out of the room while the paparazzi continued to fire questions and snap pictures and John could only cringe inwardly, knowing that the likelihood of them leaving his friend alone was slim to none. 

When they all entered Sherlock’s hospital room they were shocked to see him out of bed, standing at the window with his hands locked behind his back. If it weren’t for the hospital gown and the slip-proof socks he would have looked very much like his old self. John bit his lip at the obvious tension Sherlock held throughout his shoulders and back. 

John cleared his throat and, at the noise, Sherlock turned stiffly and nodded at the group of men standing in the doorway. 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Mr. Holmes.” Dr. Hinley spoke from behind Lestrade’s shoulder. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I assure you, I’m not some fainting damsel in distress, Doctor.” 

“Sherlock, you’re still on the mend, get your arse back in bed.” John used his Captain Watson voice and found himself slightly surprised that it worked. Sherlock scowled and returned to the edge of the bed where he sat down like a petulant child. 

“Shall I inquire how the press conference went or, guessing from the number of vehicles out in the car park and the look on the faces of the so-called journalists as they left, can I assume you left them wanting all the sordid details of my illness and private life?” 

Lestrade groaned and ran a hand over his face, “Just like old times, eh John?” 

John suppressed a grin, “Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered what we said in there, Sherlock, and you know it.”

The man in question nodded slightly and moved to lay down, “They will always want drama. And I supply it.” 

Both Greg and John frowned. Sherlock sounded tired. He sounded almost…sad. 

“We’re going to try and get a heads up on them. We’re planning to remove you from the hospital early tomorrow morning. We announced that you’ll be recuperating here for another week so, hopefully, with the press conference footage being released tonight and tomorrow, they won’t be expecting any other news from you this soon. They’ll leave you alone for a while.” Lestrade said quietly, nodding to Dr. Hinley to give him the okay to leave the rom. 

Sherlock hummed and nodded, “I’m sure Mycroft will be supplying the security detail and car.” 

“Yes. I’ll be with you though.” John said as he walked toward the chair pulled up to Sherlock’s bedside, “You’ll need doctor supervision for a little while, so I’m going to stay with you while you recover.”

“Doctor supervision. I’m so glad you volunteered to sacrifice your precious time.” Sherlock scoffed, “Your doctorly duty. You’re a prime example to the profession as a whole.” 

“Are you kidding me right now?” John sat back and gave his friend an incredulous look. Sherlock wasn’t even looking John in the eye. He was staring at some spot on the wall behind John’s shoulder. The doctor in question could feel Lestrade shifting awkwardly in the doorjamb, so he turned around in his chair to give him a pointed look that allowed the detective inspector to escape from the emotional shit storm that was about to reign down on the hospital room. 

“Kidding? I rarely joke, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were cold, but they were still seeing past his friend.

“Well this seems like a pretty good one, Sherlock. A few months ago I was getting ready to visit your gravesite. And here I am now. Sitting by your hospital bed. I’m not staying with you these next few weeks because I’m your doctor. I’m staying with you because I’m your friend who happens to be a doctor. Jesus Christ! Are you being daft on purpose?”

“Daft? Me?!” Sherlock yelped angrily, “If I remember correctly, you had moved on with your life. Baker Street isn’t your home anymore, John.” 

The wind was knocked out of John with the last statement and he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself. It was several seconds before he could respond. When he did his voice was low and calm, spoken with all the authority and sureness of a military man, “My initial response to your return was…wrong. Very, very wrong. I was shocked. And angry. I felt betrayed and confused. I was a shit friend. An absolute shit friend. I’ve regretted my words that night every day since.” John took a deep breath and let out a cynical chuckle at his own foolishness, “I honest to God cannot tell you how terrified I was when you got ill that I wouldn’t be able to tell you how much I…how much I missed you and how much I admire you. Not many people get a second chance, Sherlock. And I’ve gotten three chances so I’m not going to fuck this up. Look at me, God dammit!” 

The older leaned forward and gripped his friend’s gaunt and clammy face between his hands. Grey blue eyes found John’s and blinked several times. John licked his lips and continued, staring at the best friend he’d ever had, “I’m coming to stay with you because I care about you more than I care for anyone else. I want to take care of you. And I don’t ever want you to suffer alone ever again.” 

Sherlock licked his lips, almost as if he was copying the doctor gripping his face. John felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach and ran his thumb over his friend’s shockingly visible cheekbones. 

“Don’t feel obligated to care for me, John. I can very well take care of myself.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and raspy. 

John let out a bark of laughter, “Take care of yourself? Like you did before your admittance to the hospital?” 

“That was an outlier incident.” 

John smiled fondly, still stroking at his friend’s cheek, “I’m going to come stay with you because you’re my friend. And you’ve been through a lot lately. And quite frankly, I’ve missed you and I want to be near you right now. Maybe it’s not so much that you need me to take care of you but that I need to take care of you…”

It was quiet for several seconds and John went to lean back, to remove his hands from Sherlock’s face but stopped when he felt a steel grip at his left wrist, keeping his hands against the cool skin, “Then for your sake…perhaps you should accompany me to Baker Street.” 

John sighed, tension oozing from his shoulders as he let his head hang between his two arms, “Thank you.” 

Sherlock’s hand, the one resting on his wrist slid up to squeeze at John’s fingers and he turned toward his friend’s palm. If Sherlock were anybody else John would swear he was nuzzling his hand, about to kiss at the love and life lines charting their course over his palm, but since it was Sherlock, it was stiff, awkward, and most assuredly not a nuzzle. 

Sherlock’s deep baritone vibrated through John’s fingers, down his arm, and straight to his gut where it bubbled happily, “I cannot promise I will be any more welcoming to your help now as I was two years ago. Though…” the consulting detective hesitated momentarily before closing his eyes to continue, “I will always enjoy your company when you’re free to offer it.” 

The doctor smiled, almost goofily, and ran his hand down Sherlock cheekbone to run along his prominent jawline, pushing up so the younger man was forced to look into his friend’s face, “I’ll always enjoy your company, too.” 

Sherlock nodded and then leaned back, putting space between the two of them, “I suppose you’ll be the one to pick me up tomorrow morning.”

John squashed down the slight disappointment settling in his chest at the distance between him and his friend, “Yup. Bright and early. Mycroft arranged for me to be here at around 4:30.” 

“I’ll be ready. Has he supplied me with clothes or am I to walk around in a hospital gown? He would force me to humiliate myself like that, the prat.” 

John laughed, “I’ll bring some things with me when I come. Mind you, it won’t be your usual posh suits. We’re traveling incognito.” 

“Incognito? From the hospital room to the car park? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

John only laughed harder, leaned in to kiss his friend’s temple, pat his thigh and leave, “Just be ready and I’ll see you tomorrow.”


End file.
